


If They Could Fly (Higher)

by tomlindrugs



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 1930s, 1940s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, Blood and Violence, Childhood Friends, Fluffy at times, Friends to Lovers, H and L are kids half of the time, Historical Inaccuracy, Kid Fic (for a while), M/M, Minor Character Death(s), Nazi Germany, Period Typical Antisemitism, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Slow burn i guess?, Unreliable Narrator, angsty when it has to be, but they're pretty infatuated with each other early on, mentions of suicide and suicide attempts, tweed caps overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-10-07 15:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 85,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17368889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomlindrugs/pseuds/tomlindrugs
Summary: Berlin, 1931. Harry and Louis grew up together and are nothing short of inseparable. Harry wants to fly at all costs and Louis wants to help, but as old tales say, fly too close to the sun and your melted wings will send you crashing down in the sea.





	1. Prologue - Wörter und Zahlen.

**Author's Note:**

> hello,
> 
> if they could fly (higher) is my own translated work (originally written in french), hope you enjoy it ! please keep in mind that english isn't my first language (then again neither is french but hey), i did my best, so bear with me !!
> 
> disclaimers :
> 
> * the characters in this story are in no way associated with real life people. except harry and louis, there are only original characters, and even L and H's last names have been changed. no one in real life will be in any way associated with any kind of authoritarian regime/oppressors. this isn't an SS/Jew fic. i don't mean any disrespect and i have tried my best to handle the setting with due consideration and caution. 
> 
> * the narrator can be ironic, and if some of what's said in the descriptions looks sketchy, just know that it's been done on purpose and that you shouldn't take it literally (i.e. "six million little mistakes" in the prologue).
> 
> * if you spot anachronisms, let me know!
> 
> * there will be a use of german words and expressions throughout the story. the context should help you decipher them easily. i don't speak german fluently, but if you do and if you spot any kind of mistake, let me know as well!
> 
> * i've written it in the tags but i'll say it again here : towards the end, there is a part with graphic depiction of violence that leads to the death of a minor character, as well as mentions of suicide and suicide attempts. please be wary of that.
> 
>  
> 
> enjoy !

 

Words and numbers

 

**Frankfurt central station**

**May 1945**

 

**_HITLER DEAD_ **

 

**_GOEBBELS FAMILY DECIMATED_ **

 

**_GERMANY SURRENDERS_ **

 

**_END OF THE WAR IN EUROPE_ **

 

The newspaper headlines appeared to be screaming in big, black, bold letters— had been for the past few days, really. Simple but meaningful words had brought a long-awaited, euphoric relief among those who were still there to read them. It had been four or five years, and a little more than six million little mistakes. Powerful as those words might be, it all came down to some ink on paper.

   The train heading for Berlin ground to a halt on the rails, clouds of steam billowing from the depressurizing engines. The platform was swarming with travellers and reeked of smoke. There were women holding their restless children’s hands, and there were dozens of frantic men, all lining up in front of the wickets.    

   Unable to concentrate on his reading, Louis Teller lowered the newspaper on his lap. Unlike most people, he didn't seem to be in a hurry. He’d studied law in Frankfurt, and the thought of going back home after all these years of bottling everything up and shutting everyone out did not appeal to him at all. At times, he'd find himself yearning to see his mother – other times, he'd curse the mere thought of her. His father, a rather trigger-happy man, had committed suicide at the turn of the month, when the idea of winning the war began to seem less and less likely. Herr Kommandant Teller’s death hadn’t particularly distraught Louis, but it only seemed fair to return to his family and at least put on an act to look like a decent, mourning son.

He hadn’t set foot in Berlin in years and, if he was being completely honest, he dreaded it. He feared that his mother wouldn’t even recognize him when he’d be back. He’d let his beard grow for a little over three months, and he’d lost a great deal of weight. However, the triviality of it all was nothing compared to the itching feeling that he might not even find anyone alive in Berlin, what with all the daily bombings and air raids – Frankfurt hadn't been spared for what it was worth, but the great _Hauptstadt_ had certainly taken the worst toll. It had been as though the whole world wanted to scratch Berlin's name out of the map.

  In a single motion, Louis grabbed his newspaper and his suitcase and made for the door. He climbed on board and walked down the narrow aisle, heading for the compartment he’d been assigned to.

“Watch out, sir!”

   He stepped aside to let two young boys through. They nearly made him lose his balance as he held onto the rail, quietly cursing them under his breath.  They looked not a day older than eight years old, and they were running with their arms outstretched, making engine noises with their mouths. Just like airplanes. And, like a blast from the past, blurry, odd and painful recollections of his early years resurfaced out of the blue. The slightest wink at anything remotely related to his childhood was a trigger. Apple pies, paper airplanes, chalk dust and knee-high socks, green eyes and golden necklaces — he was never safe from an unwanted trip back in time. He closed his eyes for a while, cursing himself for bringing up such deeply-buried memories. The wound had yet to heal – and he severely doubted it’d ever entirely mend.

 

   Losing Harry had taken a colossal toll on him – bigger than he'd ever like to admit.

 

   He opened the compartment door, double-checking if the number above the door matched the one on his ticket. He soon realized that he wouldn't be traveling alone. A very tall man was already sitting, with his temple pressed against the window, and his tweed cap covering half of his face. On the bench near him sat alone a small yellow book with a lion and a man drawn on the worn-out cover. Louis assumed, from his deep slumber, that he’d gotten on the train many stations ago. He hoisted his suitcase up on a shelf and sat on the same side as him, leaving a safe distance between the strange man and himself.

   The train whistled, announcing its imminent departure.

   The pistons hissed loudly, and the train surged on.


	2. September 1931 - vor dem Zusammenbruch.

 

Before the Fall

 

Louis had met Harry Steckelberg for the first time, fourteen years ago.

  The young couple next door, a kind-hearted woman and a whimsical man, had adopted him from the Pankow Jewish orphanage as their last hope of filling the hole in their hearts, after three devastating misfortunes. In spite of being passionately in love, they had never been able to have children. Both of their families had blamed it all on the so-called corruption of their marriage – _it's what you get for breaking the rules,_ had said everyone in the same disdainful and haughty way. All quarrels aside, it was obvious that after having spotted the little seven-year-old boy with luscious dark locks and dazzling eyes at the orphanage, Ariel and Karla Steckelberg had grown fond of Harry.

   To say that Louis loved Frau Steckelberg would be an understatement. Perhaps it was her big blue eyes and her soft reassuring voice, or that she smothered him in gifts and toys and sweets as often as she could. He was still oblivious to the fact that she couldn’t have children, and that she made up for it by showering him with love. All of this, of course, was a while before Harry entered the happy picture in which Louis was the only child.

  Harry and Louis' first encounter had consisted of stolen glances, sheepish questions and a powdery cookie eating session while their mothers, who were long-time friends, were catching up on each other's frivolous stories over cups of tea and bread and jam. Not so long ago, Harry was quiet and shy as they come, and getting him to engage in any sort of game was a real challenge. He'd never so much as utter a word when the general attention was elsewhere and, in the case he was being spoken to, he would only reply with one-word sentences. Louis, on the other hand, had the energy of a thousand suns fused together in a puny body; noisy, turbulent, unable to stay put but endearing. The fact remained that towards the end of August 1931, the two boys had become good friends. Despite their being polar opposites, Louis had grown to feel a surge of a protective, big-brother-y instinct towards Harry.

   He had gotten him through the first day of school quite smoothly, given the fact that Harry had never been in a proper school before. He'd been taught how to read and write at the orphanage, and Louis guessed by Harry's stiff behaviour in class that the teachers weren't particularly kind, there. At the mere sight of Herr Van der Valk, their teacher, he straightened up on his chair and lowered his eyes. He flinched whenever there was a loud noise, haunted by images of the schoolmarm beating children in the hallways.

At recess, Louis made sure that he was feeling all right. Harry wanted to go home, wherever that was. But somehow, Louis' reassuring grip on his wrist, along with the calming blue of his eyes, made him feel like he wasn't ever going to get hurt.

“I'll show you around,” said Louis, dragging him over to the nearest tree in the school yard. “You'll meet my friends. Remember the friends I told you about?”

“I remember.”

“Julius and Frank won't bite. Look, there they are!”

Julius Meinhardt and Frank Andelman seemed intimidating to say the least. They both stared him down for a while, then looked at Louis as if waiting for some sort of explanation.

“Harry wants to play with us,” said Louis, firmly, leaving no room for any kind of arguing. Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Frank cut him off.

“Let's play War. We're short of soldiers anyway... Join us, then?”

Harry looked at Julius, who hadn't spoken yet. The tall boy scrunched his freckle-covered nose in contempt, and then his lips stretched in a sly smile as he suggested, “He can be a war prisoner. And we’ll torture him and chain him up against a pole.”

“But I don’t want to be a war prisoner,” said Harry with what little conviction he could muster. “It’s no fun.”

“It’s called War, _Dummkopf_. It’s not supposed to be fun for everybody,” Julius snapped.

“Harry will not be a prisoner,” Louis protested. “He’s going to be in _my_ army, under _my_ command. And don’t call him _Dummkopf_ when you can’t even spell it _._ ”

Frank and Harry had a laugh at Julius’ expense, earning themselves a death glare that made them stop at once. Then Julius stared at Harry’s necklace — the pendant was shaped like a star. He didn’t say a thing, but the way he looked at Harry for the remainder of the day spoke louder than any words he could’ve thrown at him.

     Aside from Julius’ odd behaviour, the afternoon went by swiftly, filled with laughs and new friends at recess. Harry remained his usual bashful self the whole day through, despite Louis' countless attempts to get him to come out of his shell. As soon as the final bell dismissed the class, he dragged Harry outside and insisted he showed him how to ride his bicycle – Louis owned a splendid red two-wheeler which he never let anyone use. His friend looked like he could use a good ride. Although he hadn't said it out loud, Harry had had his eyes on it since day one, and Louis certainly hadn't failed to notice.

“Go on, then. Up you go. Here, I'll hold your satchel for you.”

    Louis reached for it and Harry took a few steps back, covering it protectively, “No,” he said. “Maybe another time.”

“Is there a problem?” Louis frowned, tucking his fringe under his tweed cap. “I promise I won’t let you fall over. I'll even hold the handlebars 'til we get home. It's always loads of fun once you ride on your own.”

“Not today.”

“Fine.” Louis gave a little nudge to the kickstand with his foot, steering his bicycle by the handlebars towards the cobbled street. He glanced over his shoulder, scowling at Harry who still hadn't moved. “Don't just stand there! Let's go to Zucker’s and we'll share a bag of sweets.”

“I'm not in a mood for candy.”

“What _are_ you in a mood for?” Louis giggled. “What do you like?”

“I like airplanes,” Harry shrugged and said quietly.

Louis looked around and then up to the sky, and chuckled “Good luck with that. Not swarming in the streets, airplanes, are they?”

And for the first time, Harry let out a genuine laugh.

“You should come over for tea. Mutti's made some strudel.”

On their way to Rockenfeld Strasse, Louis stopped by _Zucker’s_ , the candy shop, and came running out of the store with a bag full of candy and an insane amount of money sticking out of his short's bulging pockets. It had cost him over eight hundred marks. Although he was still quite young, he knew enough to know that they shouldn't be bringing a wheelbarrow full of bills to buy bread at the market, like his mother had to do, every once in a while. He had heard his parents arguing over this issue countless times, and though he couldn't understand everything, he did catch some snippets of it and sort of managed to put some pieces together. They were in a bad place, and perhaps it was why his father had left for his Secret Mission.

The boys made their way down a narrow paved-up way, heading home at last. Harry had given in to the temptation and they were taking turns to dig into the bag of coloured sweets.

“If you stay over this evening,” Louis began to say with his mouth full, “Just know that Mutti’s probably made a whole batch of pretzels. And maybe she’ll even let us eat two, if we ask nicely.” 

“Do you ever stop eating?” 

“Why would I? If I stop eating, I’ll be dead.” 

   Harry swallowed yet another blue candy, then stuck out his tongue so that Louis could see up close, “Is it blue?” 

“Yes. What’s mine like?” 

“Can’t really tell.”

 “Well, I’ll need a few more of these.” With that, Louis stuffed a handful of candy in his mouth. He waited until he had swallowed everything before he spoke again. “About Julius...” He paused as he saw Harry stiffening. “What’s with him? He was being proper odd this afternoon. It looked like you knew each other.”

“No,” said Harry, taken aback. “No, we don’t.”

"Well, he doesn't usually act like that with new people.”

“It’s because of this,” Harry replied in a low voice, then pulled on the chain around his neck to uncover the little star that was hidden underneath his white linen collar. “I hadn't hidden it earlier this morning like Karla told me to.”

Louis stared intently at the silvery star hanging on Harry's chest, “What is it?”

“It's the Star of David.”

“Who’s David? Did you steal it from him? ‘S that why you’re not allowed to show it off?” 

“I didn’t steal anything,” Harry muttered. “And I don’t know who David is.” 

“Well ... Why are you wearing it, then?” 

“My real mother gave it to me, some years ago.”

   Louis nodded, “Fair enough. But then... It still doesn't explain why Julius was being stupid.”

“Couldn't you tell he was scared?”

“Scared? Please! You couldn't scare anyone if you tried,” Louis cracked up.

   There was a brief smile on Harry's candy-coloured lips. It vanished instantly as he looked down, slowly coming to the realization that perhaps Louis wasn't as bright as he thought he was. He still had something of a childlike joy and chastity that Harry had long lost and, sometimes, at night, wished he'd recover.

***

 It was always exciting to have Harry over.

   Lately, Louis had begun to find life at home increasingly boring. His father had indeed left for his _Top-Secret Mission that’s Completely and Absolutely Unsuitable for Children His Age,_ and then little Lotte had come into the world a few months ago; Louis had lost his spot on the priority list. His mother just didn't seem to pay any attention at all to him; she was frantic all the time, always on the verge of having a stroke, what with the sleepless nights and the infant cries filling the tiny apartment. Louis wasn't helping her case. If anything, he made things worse. He threw fits of jealousy more often than not, essentially _demanding_ to be taken care of the way Lotte was. Louis was a difficult child; however, he loved his little sister with everything he had. Never had he expected a baby to be so little, so fragile and dependent. Sometimes, he’d stand on his tiptoes and peek over Lotte’s crib or he’d silently watch as his mother held her in her arms, at night. He thought she was lovely, with her rosy face and her wild blue eyes always wide open, fascinated by everything.

  He was in constant need for attention. Little did he know, there was someone out there who was willing to sit down quietly just to watch him be the quirky, effervescent little troublemaker that he was. And as it happens, someone had just recently turned up in his life, wearing jean overalls with a single loose suspender, chocolate curly hair and eyes as pretty as they were intriguing. 

   The boys ran up the stairs leading to the Teller’s apartment. Louis made airplane engine sounds with his mouth, running with his arms outstretched and urging Harry to do the same. Then they came to a halt in front of the door. 

“Mutti, we’re back!” 

They heard Frieda Teller’s voice behind the door, “We?” 

“Harry’s here!”

  At first glance, anyone would immediately see that the woman who opened the door was still a young girl, herself. It was ridiculous to think that Frieda Teller was the mother of a seven-year-old boy _and_ a baby -- she was only twenty-four. She unfastened her white apron, beaming with joy as she spotted little Harry with his hands behind his back, “I didn’t know he’d be coming, you should’ve told me. I’d have baked some more.” 

 “We’ll share,” said Louis. He grabbed Harry's hand and led him inside, running straight to the dining room table. Frieda followed them and put her hands on her hips.

 “Are clean hands optional?” 

“Well…” 

“Wash up, boys.” Louis and Harry zoomed to the bathroom, resuming their little airplane game, clumsily washed their hands and then came running back to the table, tripping on the way.

   “Are you hungry, today, Harry?” Frieda asked, getting hold of the apple pie she’d left to cool on the counter. He nodded.

   The last time Frieda had tried to give him food, he had only nibbled on the bread and had not wanted to swallow anything else.

 “A little hungry or _very_ hungry?” She asked, a teasing smile stretched across her painted lips. “Mmh… Would you smell that?” she looked at Louis from the corner of her eye, hoping he’d play along.

 “Oh!” he exclaimed, catching on. “Well I, for one, am starving!” 

   He grabbed his plate with both hands and held it out to her.

 “Listen to that one,” she chuckled. “We all know, love. But Harry needs to eat, doesn’t he? He needs to grow big and strong!”

   Louis laughed to himself, picturing Harry, _big and strong_. Harry was far too small for his age and he couldn’t, for the life of him, imagine a world where he’d exceed his actual size. Louis was taller than him, and he thought that it should always remain so.

   As soon as Frieda set the apple pie on the table, there was a loud thumping noise from a bedroom, as though something heavy had fallen, followed by Lotte’s typical shrill cries. The young woman dropped everything and ran to the baby's room. Managing a single household with two children proved to be quite challenging, even in the simplest of times.

   Louis exchanged a knowing glance with Harry. Even as hungry as he was, he still cut the pie in half, leaving two equal parts. He cut the halves into quarters and then into eighths.

 “If you eat everything,” he whispered, leaning over the table as his elbows crushed some bread crumbs, “I’ll show you how to make paper airplanes. We’ll make zillions of them, and we’ll bring them to class.”

 “I can’t eat all of it,” Harry mumbled, staring up from beneath his lashes. 

“Won’t you do it for me?”

   Harry agreed to try. He managed to down a full slice and a half. After that, he began to feel sick and slumped on his chair, arms limp at either side of his body. Louis gave him a thumbs up and took care of the rest, munching on the last thick slices as though his life depended on it. Once the pie disappeared, leaving nothing behind but a few miserable crumbs on the plate, Lotte stopped crying as if on cue, in some sort of unintentional sibling collaboration. Frieda came back, with pink cheeks and her hair falling out of her knot, holding the baby tightly to her chest. She ground to a halt as she stared at the empty tray in disbelief. Louis tried to hide his smile but the crumbs around his mouth and Harry's betrayed them, “I can’t believe it,” was all she could say. 

“We were hungry.” Louis explained.  

“Aren’t you always? I’d made it for tonight. What about dessert, then, boys?”

   Harry was the first to apologize, “Sorry…”

   Frieda anxiously set Lotte down in her Moses basket on the floor and then leaned down to kiss Harry over his grey cap, “It’s all right, _Liebling_. As long as you’re eating… Karla will be glad to hear that, won’t she?”

   Harry blushed, and Louis crossed his arms, slightly annoyed. He liked Harry, but he was _not_ about to share his mother. Frieda was pretty, and she belonged to him, and him only.

   He then remembered that Harry had lost _both_ of his parents, and so he uncrossed his arms; he would make an exception for him.

Frieda returned to the sink to clean dirty plates and tried to bring up a much-dreaded topic with Harry, making a point of not sounding too worried, “So, Harry. Tell me. Have they asked you any questions, at school?” 

“Questions?” he said, and paused to think. “Herr Van der Valk asked me if I knew who was president.” 

“Yes? Did you answer?”

 “I did. I said it was Hindenburg.” 

“That’s good, _Liebling_. Did they ask you anything else? About your necklace? Karla’s quite on edge.”

 Harry and Louis exchanged a worried look. After a while, Harry decided that it was better to put the whole thing behind them for now, and so he decided to lie, “They didn’t notice the necklace.”

 “That’s good news, love. Be careful, _ja_.”

 “Mutti?” Louis asked, crossing his arms on the table and frowning. “What’s so wrong with the Star of David?”

   Frieda stopped scrubbing a plate and stared at him, eyes wide and listless. Then, she let out a nervous laugh, and resumed her washing, “Nothing, love. Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s only a star.”

“Who’s he, then? David. What’s he done?” 

“You’re far too young for that, Lou. Would you be so good as to take Harry to your room? You two can play until supper’s ready. And, for the love of God, no running and no yelling. Lotte's just fallen asleep again.”

   Louis shrugged and left the table, taking Harry with him to his room. There, they spent an hour making paper airplanes and sending them to fly out of the window. The necklace wasn't brought up again, and Harry made sure to keep it hidden for his own sake.


	3. December 1931 - Das schönste Geschenk.

 

The most beautiful gift

 

Karla Steckelberg had always been gentle with Harry. At night, she’d even read him bedtime stories.  

   Before his mother died, Harry wouldn’t fall asleep until she sat beside him on his bed, held his hand and hummed a very special lullaby, whose words and tune oddly reminded him of a sand-covered hot desert and palm trees that looked like shadows carved out of an orange sky. At times, the song made him think about Rosenheim, his hometown. Now, for the life of him, no matter how hard he tried to picture her features again, he could only remember his mother as a beautiful woman who hums a lot and sings to him in another language. Every time she spoke, she made the words sound like music. It was perhaps the most striking thing about her — one of the only details Harry would not forget about when he'd grow older. 

   Karla did not sing. It was one of the only downsides of living in a foster home with new parents. As a matter of fact, Karla and Ariel Steckelberg were very good people.  

   Harry liked his new home. Looking back, anything was better than the Pankow Jewish orphanage. A reassuring familiarity radiated from the Steckelberg household. It could’ve been the wool plaids, swarming with warm colours, spread everywhere throughout the house, or the crooked frames, or the intriguing trinkets on the tables that gave this home a comfort and an intimacy the cold white walls of the orphanage could never compete with. 

    On a cold December evening, Harry watched as thousands upon thousands of snowflakes tumbled down the foggy sky and onto the cobblestone of the roads. He sat in the living room sofa, wrapped in several layers of wool blankets. He’d given up on trying to assemble a little wooden airplane and left it on the floor. He’d played for a while with two little lead soldiers he’d found near the curb of a road, but eventually grew bored of them in nothing flat. 

   He didn't have much to keep tabs on and he'd traveled a lot in the past years; from Rosenheim to Stuttgart, and then from Stuttgart to Berlin, when there wasn't anything suitable for someone of his kind in the whole of Baden. He had very few clothes, a toothbrush, his necklace and a couple of books.  

   His book on airplanes, which he received as a gift many years ago, was wide open, spread on the wooden floor, right by his model airplane. 

   There was a knock at the door and Harry craned his neck, writhing on the sofa to try and peek. They weren’t expecting guests but Karla stormed out of the kitchen, wiping her wet hands with an old piece of cloth, and opened the door. Harry stretched and strained but he could still not see who was standing on the threshold. Standing up and putting his bare feet on the cold floor didn’t exactly appeal to him, and so he started listening carefully. 

    He heard Karla’s voice very clearly. Harry noticed she’d only use this playful tone when she found herself around children. He supposed it was the neighbours’ son, who’d always come to their door to ask for sugar or flour.  

“Harry!” She called. “Come, look who’s here!”  

   Harry got up reluctantly and walked to the door. A little boy stood there, with his grey felt coat buttoned up to the chin and a woollen scarf wrapped around his neck. His cheeks were tinted red and Harry inevitably smiled as he recognized Louis’ blue eyes sparkling with mischief. Harry gave a timid hello, and shoved both of his hands in his pockets. 

“We’re going downtown with Mutti and Lotte, we ought to buy gifts and everything we need for Christmas. And you’re coming with us!”   

“Am I?”   

“Of course, you are! Now go on, we don’t want to keep the ladies waiting.”  

  Karla laughed at his sly tone and looked down at Harry, “Have fun you two. But I want you back here after you’re done. Right, Lou?” 

Louis gave a nod, “’Course. Mutti’s been clear enough.” 

“ _Gut,”_  Karla unhooked Harry’s coat from the hanger, “Do bundle up,  _Liebling,_ it’s awfully cold outside.” 

   

***  

  Downtown Berlin was already a sight in itself. But as Christmas rolled around, a whole new world was coming alive with the sound of the choirs and the smell of roasted chestnuts. Cobbled streets were hidden underneath a snowy carpet, the trees’ bare branches had turned white, and tiny sparkling lights were tangled in their twigs, hovering above the busy roads. 

   Louis was walking —  _prancing_  — alongside his mother and Harry. His father would be back soon from his Secret Mission, and his birthday was on December 24th – and so it was no wonder that Christmas was Louis’ favorite period of the year. 

   He cast a few furtive glances at baby Lotte in her stroller, daydreaming about getting to be carried everywhere, and then he cautiously reached for his best friend’s hand. Harry complied, and Louis noticed that his cheeks were slowly taking a rosy tint. He figured he must’ve been cold, but that night, he couldn’t have been further from the truth. 

 

    Harry had never felt so warm in his entire life. 

 

   As the little group walked by the boys’ favourite toy store,  _Spielzeugbox,_  Louis tugged on Frieda’s sleeve so that she’d lean towards him, “What is it?” she asked, mildly annoyed. 

 “May Harry and I go in?”  

 “All right, let’s make it quick, then.”   

“Danke, Mutti!” 

   Louis excitedly led Harry to the door, nearly slipping on the icy threshold. They giggled as they hung onto each other to keep from falling, and pushed the glass door. It opened with a chime, and they were both greeted with a welcome wave of heat.  

 “Hallo, Herr Maisel,” said Harry, politely. He’d known the old shopkeeper for a while, now, and he’d grown fond of his fantastic airplane collection. Herr Maisel returned his greeting with a warm smile. 

   Louis had already disappeared within the maze of aisles filled with toys. Frieda pushed the stroller and walked into the shop, waving hello to Herr Maisel.  

“Harry, over here!” Louis called.  

   Then they were walking side by side, eyes gawking at the shelves. Louis thought out loud about what he would ask for Christmas while Harry silently peered at the small wooden planes. He already owned a model airplane and he figured that it was a lot more than what some children had been blessed with. He would never dare ask anything to his foster parents, as they were kind enough to let him live under their roof and provide for him on the daily. Besides, he didn’t even celebrate Christmas. And so, Harry gave up on the toys as soon as he laid eyes on them. 

“Mutti, I want that! And this, and that, and that thing up there! I can't tell what it is from here, but I want it.”   

“Don’t you think it’s a little too much?”  

 “No, it isn’t.”  

 “Harry, dear, have you found something you like?” asked Frieda, putting a hand on his snow-covered shoulder.  

   Harry shook his head, “No.” He didn’t want Frieda to feel like she had to offer him anything.  

   Louis wanted the lot: an electric train, a fire truck, one of those big pedal cars and especially the mini film projector. Frieda promised him that he would have what he wanted by Christmas, when his father would be back. Surprisingly enough, Louis had never believed in the whole Father Christmas nonsense she had tried to feed him all these years.  _Mutti, that's stupid_ , he'd said.  _Julius Meinhardt’s a proper scamp and yet he still gets tons of brilliant gifts, and he’s never heard about those pieces of coal you’re talking about._  

   Harry, on the other hand, had found another jewel to torture himself with. He’d stopped in front of a large cardboard box, with his eyes wider than ever. He’d just found the Holy Grail of toys – he thought he might cry on the spot. Louis and his mother were chatting further, and so he seized the moment and stepped forward to look at it closely. It was a remote-controlled airplane. 

   He jumped as he heard Herr Maisel’s voice near him, “A beauty, is it not? It's a collector's item. My best pal’s got one of ‘em.”   

“You mean to say that grown-ups are wasting their time with toys, too?”  

Herr Maisel smiled and shook his head, “It isn’t just a toy, you’d know about it, wouldn’t you?”  

 “Well…”   

“This one was inspired by a true model of the Great War. It’s an exact replica of the Hannover CL.”   

“Yes, it's beautiful.”  

   Harry had to muster all of his strength not to scream that it was the most brilliant model he’d ever laid his eyes on.  

“I know how much you love airplanes,” said Herr Maisel, recalling all those times he'd seen Karla and Harry in the store, and how Harry's eyes sparkled as they spotted the little wooden models. “And I know that it isn’t cheap. Perhaps I can do something for you, and...” 

“I'm fine,” Harry dismissed him. “It's no trouble. I could come back here and ... and just look at it. I don’t reckon Mama will buy it for me.”  

 “Suit yourself, boy.”  

   The man smiled and left the aisle to greet new customers. His shop was a haven for children and Harry wished he had the courage to talk to Karla.  

    Louis skipped to his side, and stared at the box for a while. He’d been watching Harry from afar, and smiled as an idea popped into his head, “D’you like it?” 

   Harry nodded, avoiding eye contact.  

“D’you want it?”   

“Yes…”   

“It's Christmas,” said Louis with shrug. “What do you know...” 

“I don't celebrate Christmas, I'm...” 

   Louis had already left. He ran to his mother and whispered something into her ear that made her smile proudly.    

***  

   On the way back home, Louis was worryingly silent. 

    Frieda and Harry exchanged knowing glances, and they both quietly agreed that the only thing that was keeping Louis from talking was the monstrous pretzel he was holding in his hands. It was the size of his face, poking out from a white paper bag, still glistening with butter and sprinkled with coarse salt.  

   A small choir stood gathered in the middle of the public square, harmonious voices raising in the crisp winter air in the tune of  _Stille Nacht._  

    Their words echoed through the night like a lullaby, and little Lotte soon fell asleep under a pile of warm wool blankets. 

     As the world dimmed down, it suddenly stopped snowing. There were dozens of footprints crisscrossing on the greyish snow, and Frieda stopped walking to listen to the choir. The boys stood closer together, and watched as she tightened her scarf — her eyes were soft and reassuring. Louis winced when she wrapped her arm around his shoulders, “Look,” she said. “Remember when  _you_  were in a choir?” 

Louis frowned in distaste, “Stop,” he quietly said. “I hated it, they made me wear a dress.” 

“It  _wasn't_  a dress, Lou. You've got a charming voice, love, you could still try out next year and…” 

“I’ll never open my mouth in a choir again unless Harry comes with me.” 

“Love, Harry can't join you, he’s…. Nevermind... Hush, now, let's listen to them.” 

    Harry was leaning on the stroller's handlebar, playing with a growing hole in his mitten. He looked up at Frieda, and she gave him a soothing smile. He then stared down at the baby and watched in wonder as Lotte’s lips unconsciously moved in her sleep. Her nose truly was the tiniest thing he’d ever seen. Although she was sound asleep, he could've sworn he saw her smile a little. 

  They walked back to Rockenfeld Strasse in the silent night. Frieda picked up Lotte in her arms, pushed the empty stroller to the back of block's ground floor, then came back to pick up her wicker basket chock-full of fresh food from the Christmas Market. Suddenly, Louis’ voice boomed outside of the building, “Mutti!”   

“Hush!” Frieda scolded, “You’ll wake up the entire neighbourhood, for heaven’s sake, your sister’s asleep.” She stepped outside. “What’s going on?”   

“Look.”   

   Louis was squatting on the ground near the door. Harry watched from a distance. Louis’ bare finger pointed at the corner.   

  “ _Was ist los?”_  Frieda urged him.   

  “Look!”  

   Harry saw what appeared to be a small black bird, motionless and stiff on the frosted ground. It’d probably caught its death outside. He thought to himself that this was one of the rare circumstances where even wings couldn’t set someone free from their suffering.  

  “It looks cold,” said Louis. “It’s not even moving, Mutti. We can’t leave it here, we ought to help! Can’t we take it home?”   

“I’m afraid not. Look, _schatz_ , it’s stiff. There’s not much we can do.” 

“But I  _want_  to help!” Louis pleaded, concern tightening his throat. “I’ll warm it up and everything! It’ll wake right up!” 

“Louis,  _das reicht!_ It's too late.”  

   Louis held back his tears as he stood up. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and Harry started to feel sick – he wasn’t sure whether it was due to the bird’s helpless case, or simply to seeing his best friend all upset. 

 “Louis, come,” Frieda said, firmly, and her voice drastically softened as she turned to Harry. “Harry, dear, are you staying?”  

    Harry politely refused, “Mama said I’d have to go back home.”  

 “Well, see you soon, then. Gute Nacht, love.”   

“Gute Nacht, Frau Teller.”  

   He walked to his building, stopping halfway and watching as Louis held his ground, teeth gritted and fists clenched at his sides. Frieda, all the way from the stairs, did her best to get him to follow her, showing as much authority as her busy arms allowed her, “Louis, for the last time…”   

“ _Nein!”_  

   He shut the door and leaned on it.  

“You'll be stuck outside,” Harry pointed out to him. 

“No. I am coming with you. That'll teach her to be cruel.”  

   Harry shrugged, “As you wish.”  

 

*** 

 

“You know, Lou, it isn’t your mother’s fault. You couldn’t have saved this bird if you tried,” Karla assured him as she placed a cup of warm milk in front of him. 

   Louis shrugged and cupped his hands around the colourful ceramic to keep his fingers warm. He was about to reply that Frieda was  _always_  cruel and that he never wanted to talk to her ever again, but decided against it.  He still had to remind her about his never-ending list of gifts. 

“You can stay the night, but only this once. This can’t become a habit, understood?”   

“Ja, frau Steckelberg.”  

   Harry managed to hide his smile behind his oversized mug. He was secretly glad that Louis had won the case, as it meant that they would spend the night together.   

   He finished his milk and set his mug on the dining room table.  

“You warm enough, love?” Harry nodded as Karla picked up the empty dishes. “It's way past your bedtime. Go wash up, and I want you both in bed by eleven.”  

   Harry patiently waited for Louis to finish drinking, and then ran to the bathroom.   

   The tub had already been filled with lukewarm water, and Harry was brushing his teeth in front of the mirror while Louis undressed. They ended up sitting in the metal tub, facing each other with their clothes scattered on the –already- wet floor. Harry actively rubbed his skin with the washcloth and Louis playfully splashed him.  

 “Hey!”   

“That was still gentle!”   

“I’ll show you gentle,” Harry laughed and splashed him back, watching Louis’ sandy hair turn dark brown as the strands dampened. 

   Louis crossed his arms in front of his face in protection, “Stop it, Harry, enough!” 

“Already?”  

 “I don’t want to hurt you,” Louis said with a tiny smirk. “You're so small, you’d drown in a heartbeat.”  

   Harry’s next water attack well-near emptied the tub, “I’m not small!”   

“We’ll leave that for debate,” said Louis, not knowing what it meant but having often heard it from his father whenever he’d get caught telling a lie. The first time he’d heard it was when he swore to everything he owned that his homework had been done, to which his father had raised an incredulous eyebrow, _'Sure. We’ll leave that for debate.'_

    “I’ll end up taller than you, and you’ll regret everything you’ve ever said.”   

“Ha!” Louis splashed him back and some of the soapy water got in Harry’s eyes.  

“I’ll even have a beard before you do!” Harry added, covering his face with one of his hands and spraying water with the other. 

“Wow, what else?”  

   Harry stopped splashing and his smile disappeared. The water gently lapped against the sides of the tub as he brought up his hand to scratch his own neck in discomfort. 

“Sorry,” Louis whispered, “I was just teasing.”  

“Right.”  

   Harry could no longer bear all the teasing and mockery about his size. At the orphanage, when he wasn’t being ignored, the older children would make fun of him for being the size of an ant. They’d hold his personal belongings out of his reach just to tease him. Harry hoped someday he’d grow big enough to surprise them all. He wished with all of his heart that he’d end up big and strong.  

   “Are you upset, Harry?” 

   “No. Well you’ve gone and made me blind, now,” Harry said while rubbing his eyes.  

    “I’m sorry about that, too,” he said, and then quickly changed the subject to avoid basking in his own growing guilt, “Are you looking forward to Christmas?”  

   Christmas meant only two things for Louis: new toys, and a feast fit for a king which he could enjoy with no limitation. There was also a boring part where he would have to sit in the pew and listen to a man tell the story of baby Jesus, which Louis found quite overrated, given that there was no knight or dragon in the story. German folklore myths and legends were, in his humble opinion, ten times more interesting.  

  “We don’t celebrate Christmas at home… We didn’t used to, at least,” Harry admitted. “And we didn't at the orphanage either.”  

“What!” Louis dropped the washcloth he was holding, “You mean you don’t know who baby Jesus is?”   

“Of course I know who he is…”   

“And you don’t celebrate Christmas?!”  

“.... No.”   

“That’s proper odd. You must come over, then! There’s always loads of things to eat, Vatti will be there, and Uncle Kurt from Munich, who sells cigars, and Aunt Angelika who gives me money, there’ll be heaps of people! Food and people, Harry! Plus, my birthday’s on the 24th. I might even give you one of my gifts, but you have to promise you’ll be there.”  

   It hadn’t yet occurred to Louis that perhaps there might have been a good reason why Harry had never celebrated his personal favourite holiday. Instead, he thought that Harry's old family mustn’t have loved him very much, if they kept him away from all these wondrous gifts and foods. He was just about to tell him before Harry started to explain, “Back then, with my family, we used to celebrate Hanukkah. It’s a bit like Christmas. Children get gifts. And we had a candle tree with eight candles. There’s one for each day…”  

     Karla knocked outside the bathroom door, “Boys! You’ve been here long enough, now come out. Your fingers will be all wrinkled.”  

   The boys looked at their fingers and laughed, and Harry even tried to peek at his own toes. Louis stood up first and walked over the edge of the tub, “You’ll tell me all about Hanukkah when we’re in bed.”  

 Harry stretched his legs out now that he had enough space and watched in silence as Louis dried his body with the towel and rubbed his wet hair.  

“What are you waiting for? Get out of the water before you turn into a raisin.”  

     

***  

      

“Zum Geburtstag viel Glück!”  

   Karla and Ariel (and Louis) had just finished singing along and Harry leaned over the table to blow his eight candles. He repeatedly blew through his cheeks to extinguish the small flames on the cake. Everyone clapped in delight and Karla kissed his cheek. Then, they heard three knocks at the door. It was Frieda Teller who had just arrived with a half-hour late. She was holding what seemed to be Harry’s gift in a hand, and Lotte’s Moses basket with the other. When Harry grew up, later in his teen years, he remembered her as a frantic, busy woman who’d always have her hands full of gifts, and children. Lotte wouldn't be the last. 

   Frieda kissed both of his cheeks and wished him a happy birthday, beaming with joy. 

   It was the 1st of February and Harry had just turned eight. Naturally, it was the only thing he’d looked forward to, ever since Louis turned eight on Christmas Eve. And here they were, a year older, and their mothers were delighted. Harry and Louis hastily ate their slice of chocolate cake — Louis helped himself to another one, and even tried to force-feed Lotte the remnants of his serving, which she did not particularly appreciate as she began to cry. He kneeled down next to her, “Lotte, you’ve no right to spoil Harry’s birthday, stop screaming,” he stared in disbelief as she cried louder. He shoved yet another handful of cake in his own mouth and scolded again with his mouth full, “Oh, shut it!” he turned around. “Mutti, why’d you bring her? All she does is scream and fuss about! Get rid of her!”   

“Louis! Is that a way to speak about your sister? Leave her alone.”  

    Frieda picked up Lotte to try and calm her down. She gave him The Look, and Louis knew just what she meant, and so he sheepishly apologized and walked away.  

   Harry had watched it all from the dining room, quietly giggling to himself. He ran to the living room but was stopped in his tracks. Karla smiled and readjusted the little red bow he wore over his white button up, “Look at you, aren't you handsome?”   

“I am.”   

“Well then, aren’t you the king of modesty,” she laughed, with her eyes all crinkly. “Go on, then. You’ve got loads of presents, this year.”  

   Presents, Harry thought to himself, taking it all in. For his last birthday at the orphanage, the only present he'd gotten was a wheat biscuit and permission to stay up thirty minutes past bedtime – he'd played alone in the common room for half an hour, and that was about it. 

Harry wanted to start with Louis’ gift first; the enormous shiny package that Frieda had brought with her. He hastily unwrapped the box, and Louis watched him from the back of the living room, hidden behind his mother’s leg.  

   Then suddenly, it dawned on him. 

   Louis had done it. He’d given him the remote-controlled airplane he’d so often fantasized about. All the other gifts paled in comparison. A smile split his face in two and he jumped to his feet, running to give Louis the biggest hug. They nearly fell backwards as Harry buried his face in Louis’ neck, smiling until his cheeks were sore. He softly thanked him and Louis hugged him back, rather pleased with himself.  

   

***  

   

“Harry?” Louis whispered. “Harry, are you asleep?” 

 “No.”  

“Good.” 

 

Harry’s small room was dark and somewhat reassuring. Louis had gotten permission to stay for the night, seeing as it was Harry’s birthday and that it would’ve certainly made him very happy to have his best friend over for once. He was laying down on a little mattress on the floor, right next to Harry’s bed, and had been tossing and turning for half an hour to no avail. He wasn’t even tired, as surprising as it sounded. Sleep was a rare commodity at the Teller’s household. As a matter of fact, Lotte was teething, and spent most of her nights yelling at the top of her lungs. Louis hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in ages, yet he still couldn’t fall asleep in a calm room. To top it off, he’d had too much chocolate cake and his stomach was giving him grief for it. But in the end, it was all worth it. Tonight, Harry had been happier than he’d ever seemed, and it had been a fascinating thing to witness. His dimples would dent his chubby cheeks and his eyes were a sparkling green. His good mood had inevitably rubbed off on everyone.

In fact, Happy Harry was like a candle shining bright enough to kindle an entire house. It was, and remained for years, one of Harry’s most beautiful peculiarities, despite the way things turned out and despite how dull and grey both Louis and Harry’s worlds became.

“You’re happy, aren’t you?” asked Louis, “You’d better be. I’ve let Mutti dress me up in that lousy black suit I usually put on Sundays, _just_ for you. I looked like a clown,” Harry giggled, and Louis added, “Be honest. Did you enjoy your presents? Or were you just pretending?”

“I wasn’t pretending!” he replied, slightly offended. “I _do_ love all of my presents.”

“Was that all you wanted?”

“Yes.”

“Then why’ve you never asked Frau Steckelberg to buy all of these things earlier?”

“I can’t,” he softly whispered. “I shouldn’t ask too much of her, or even from Papa. They’ve got it bad enough without me asking for things.”

Harry’s fear of being a burden reached frightening extents. He’d recently grown out of his leather shoes and yet he would still not ask Karla or Ariel for a new pair.

“That’s silly. You can, and you _ought_ to ask her. See, all I have to do is ask Mutti real nicely and she buys me _anything_ I want. Has your real mother ever bought you anything? Did she let you starve to death or something? I think it’s stupid, that you never celebrated Christmas… What kind of family is that? Hanukkah doesn’t even sound nearly as fun as Christmas anyway.”

    Harry never replied. Seconds felt like minutes, hours even. Louis even counted up to a hundred and twenty and Harry still hadn’t answered.  After a while, he heard him shift on his bed and he realized that he’d turned his back to him.

“Are you sleeping, then? What was the point of staying over if you're going to be grumpy all night?”

   Harry knew better than to hold it against him.

“My mother was just as nice as Karla,” he whispered.

“Sure.”

  Louis stared at the ceiling as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. He crossed his arms behind his head and wondered out loud, “Harry, what is it about airplanes that you love so much?”

“Well,” he started saying. “Imagine having wings.”

“Done.”

“And then... If something bad ever happens on Earth, like if you get in trouble for a bad mark in German, or if you get caught stealing, or if someone wants to hurt you, you just take off and fly far away. Like birds. Birds don't care about anything. Birds go anywhere, anytime. And they're free."

“Right,” Louis closed his eyes. “But those are birds, though. What about airplanes?”

“I can never dream of being a bird,” Harry said, and Louis quietly nodded in agreement. “But I can always become a pilot. You'll see me up there, crossing oceans and deserts and floes and meadows and towns, and nothing bad can ever happen to me again unless I crash. And I won't because I'll be so good at it. So, I'll never come back down ever again.”

“Except when it's time to eat.”

“And for my birthdays.”

“Will you take me with you?”

“If you behave, then yes.”

“Well, then. I like airplanes, too.”


	4. April 1933 - Höher.

Higher

 

It was a sunny Tuesday morning with a promising heat but a cool breeze gently blowing. The windows were wide open and the lace curtains swelled in the wind, floating toward the street. In the headlines of the _Berliner Morgenpost_ , Karla read that the Nazi Party’s leader, Reich Chancellor Adolf Hitler, had gained 42% of the votes in the Reichstag. Deputies had granted him full powers for four years. Ever since he’d been elected earlier this year, in January 1933, they’d only received bad news upon bad news. The man’s ideology and political plans were peculiar indeed, and yet had still received a unanimous agreement.   

    Karla folded the newspaper with a sigh and set it on the breakfast table. Harry was sitting across from her, fingers sticky with jam, tearing apart a piece of bread. She stared at him with lingering sorrow in her eyes, and after a while he began staring back.   

   He was nine years old, and his eyes had never seemed so green.  

   She mustered a tiny smile for him, and even _he_ knew that it was put up. He pushed the bread aside and wiped his fingers on a tea towel. He nodded at the newspaper she’d given up on, “May I read?”   

“I don’t see why not, love.”  

   Harry grabbed the _Berliner_ and opened it at the first page. A weak smile stretched across Karla’s lips as she watched him. He was frowning and his eyes were skipping big chunks of text. It was debatable whether he understood anything. He lingered for a while on some words he wasn’t familiar with, such as _remilitarization_ and all these specific political terms. 

“What’s NSDAP?”   

“Oh, well, it’s…”  

   Karla was cut short as the flat’s door opened and then slammed shut.  

“Ariel?” she called, mildly alarmed. 

   There was a string of curse words and overall blatant profanity coming from the front door. Karla’s husband, Ariel, barged in the kitchen, dropping his briefcase on the counter with a loud thud.  

Harry and Karla remained perfectly still as Ariel ran an anxious hand through his dark, matted curls, prancing around the small kitchen. Karla opted for a gentle approach, _“Was ist los, Liebling?”_  

“What is going on? I’ll tell you what’s going on. They’ve fired me.”   

“Surely, they must’ve been mistaken, or…”   

“These sons of bitches don’t just _make mistakes_ , do they? Do you read the news? First, that filthy _Schwein_ and his miserable right-wing party, then the boycotts and now this! They’ve fired all the Jews from public services!” Ariel cried out, dramatically waving. 

“Ariel,” Karla pleaded, “Curse words, please. Not in front of the boy.”  

“I won’t repeat them, Mama.” said Harry in a small voice. 

   Ariel ran a hand down his face, stretching the skin in exasperation. Harry didn’t yet fully understand the magnitude of the problem, but was well aware that Ariel was certainly quite cross now that he’d lost his job in the Ministry.  

“I want to take this to court, but even _that_ ’s crossed out of the list, now.” 

“Oh, we’ll find something, love. It’ll be all right. Here, sit down, have some tea, we’ll…”  

 “Right, well. What do you suggest, then? We’ve barely got enough to make ends meet, and you’re telling me _to have some tea_ … Sons of b…”  

   Ariel paused as he met Harry’s questioning eyes and sighed, “I’m sorry,” he apologized to Karla, pulled a chair and took a seat, holding his head between his hands.  

   Harry hated to see him so distressed. He’d usually be the one to lift everyone’s mood with silly jokes and stupid faces, atrocious puns and wonderful stories (Karla was particularly fond of them). Harry thought he’d never seen a couple more in love than Karla and Ariel Steckelberg.  

   Karla was biting her bottom lip; anyone could see the gears turning in her head, seeking a way out of this mess at all costs. She was the kind to keep calm in the most upsetting of situations. Only, today was different.   

   She sent Harry to his room to get ready for school, so that she could have a quiet talk with Ariel.  

   Five minutes later, Harry came running out of his room, dressed in his shorts with his white shirt neatly tucked in and buttoned-up to the collar. His blue woollen waistcoat was buttoned all wrong and his satchel swung over one shoulder as he skipped towards the front door. He hurriedly stepped in his shoes, pulled up one of his socks and snatched his tweed cap from the coat rack.  

   Ariel called out from the entrance as he was about to open the door, “Hang on.”   

“Ja, Papa?”   

“I… Well, now that I’m unemployed, that gives me plenty of time to take you to school.”  

Harry didn’t know whether he should laugh at his feeble attempt at making a joke. It hadn’t seemed very funny, back there, at the breakfast table. So, he didn’t laugh.  

“I reckon it’d be better if I went with Louis.”  

 “Right. Don’t be late, though.”   

“I won’t… Say, is it true that we’ve got no money?”  

   Ariel softened at the tone of his voice. He crouched before him, at eye-level, “Don’t think about it, little one. I’ll manage, I promise,” he held out his pinky, and Harry grabbed it. “Do your best, I’ll do the same. We’ll get there, won’t we?” 

“All right, Papa.”  

 “Now off you go.”  

   Harry went out running at full speed down the stairs to reach the ground floor, where he had left his little blue bicycle. Earlier last year, Louis had taken him out on a little trip in the outskirts of town, where new buildings were being constructed. He had taught him how to ride a bicycle; the day had been full of giggles and screams, falls and scratches, lots of cheers and a lesson learnt for the rest of his life. 

 He set his satchel in the back, nudged the kickstand up with his foot and stepped over the saddle, pedalling away in the bright street. The rays of the April sun kissed his face, blinding him momentarily. He cautiously cycled between small children from the neighbourhood who were playing in front of the block, and made a sharp turn at the end of the street. The smell of oven-baked bread at the bakery tickled his nose, then it was the sight of all the pastries that overwhelmed him. He regretted not having eaten more than a half-slice of bread and jam and a glass of milk for breakfast.  

   He was headed to the market’s place. It wasn’t the road to get to school, but he had to wait for Louis to finish distributing the _Berliner Morgenpost_ before leaving. It was his new job as a paperboy, and he was rather proud of it because he got to yell and make money; two things he thoroughly enjoyed. 

   Harry left Rockenfeld Strasse and ended up on a busy street; big, curious flags were raised against the facades of buildings: all red, with a white circle in the middle and a black swastika.  

   Once there, he ground to a halt near a lamppost. A warm feeling washed over him as he spotted a red bicycle, leaning against the post. He sat on the curb, burying his chin in the palm of his hand as he watched his best friend standing in the middle of the street vendors, a small stack of papers before him. Louis saw him and suddenly his face lit up. His smile really _was_ the prettiest he’d ever seen, even though he was missing two teeth. Harry felt like he’d just stared at the sun with no protection.   

Louis motioned for him to come.  

   Harry rose to his feet and was almost hit by a bike. He stepped back on the sidewalk and bumped into someone behind him. Meaning to apologize, he turned and found himself in front of an SA agent. He recognized him thanks to his brown shirt and horribly familiar emblem on the upper arm of his uniform. Berlin had been crawling with members of the SA lately. There was also the SS. They wore black, Harry noticed. It was easy to tell them apart, but he was still clueless as to why they were roving the streets, and what they were good for. However, as he will know, they weren’t the friendliest kind, and they often made a point of being overly and unnecessarily violent.  

“Sorry,” he quietly apologized.  

  The man shrugged him off and resumed the task he’d been ordered to carry out (putting up a poster against the florist’s window). Harry didn’t bother to read it and ran to Louis.   

“Here, young Harold. Help me out.”  

   Harry complied without fuss and they quickly distributed the remaining newspapers. Louis announced the headlines to passersby, mentioning the blazing success of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, not understanding a single word, and suggesting them to buy the newspaper to “Read all about it!”  

 Once the work was done, he hoisted his school bag on his left shoulder and let out a dramatic sigh, “I’m _exhausted!_ Elsa’s cried the whole night, I haven’t slept in three months!”   

“She’s little, she can’t help it,” Harry said, in baby Elsa’s defense.  

“’S not like I _asked_ for another sister... Babies… They’re pointless. All they ever do is cry. I’ve tried to get Mutti to take her back to the Storks’ Office, wherever that is. And I’ve told her that maybe Elsa was defective, but… Harry?”  

   Harry watched the florist's storefront with a deep scowl. The poster read: _“Germans! Defend yourselves! Do not buy from Jews!”_   

   The officer was having a heated conversation with the shopkeeper, a chubby little lady with red-tinted cheeks. She looked scandalized, loudly arguing and waving around for the officer to remove the poster.  

  Harry suddenly recalled the way Herr Maisel’s toy store, Spielzeugbox, had been boycotted. He grew uneasy but kept watching as the SA officer firmly grabbed the woman’s shoulder. Louis wrapped an arm around Harry’s back and casually led him to where they’d parked the bicycles as he changed the subject, “Van der Valk will have me executed. I’ve not learned yesterday’s poem, I’ll…”   

“They’ve fired Papa,” Harry blurted out, eyes still glued on the fight between the shop owner and the officer.  

   Louis let his arm fall back on his side, “They have?”   

“Yes.”  

  He nodded at the SA officer and whispered between gritted teeth. “Is it his fault?”   

“Not sure.”   

“I can go and knock his teeth out, if it can make you feel a little better.”  

   Louis’ knowledge of the political situation in their country was that of a complete outsider. He would only remember the interesting bits. For instance, there was a funny man with a funny moustache, who spits when he speaks, and he’d become the country’s chancellor. He also knew that the Red Flags all over Berlin were a way to show that the people supported him. But above all, from what his father had told him one evening in a serious tone, that this man, as silly as he seemed, was going to get their family out of their misery and ensure that Germany becomes the best country in the world – he was going to make it great again. Which, to Louis’ opinion, at least, seemed like a good thing. His father had said that soon it would no longer be so difficult to pay rent. 

  Harry giggled and shook his head, “It won't help.”  

“ _Or,_ I could burst his bike’s tires. Trust me, I’ve done it on Julius’ father’s brand-new bicycle.”  

The church’s bells echoed in the distance, and Louis snapped back to reality, “Uh oh. We ought to run or else we’ll get beat up. Hurry.”  

   They rushed to their bicycles, climbed on the saddle and raced towards the main street. Louis met the officer’s hard gaze, and just to spite him, stuck out his tongue at him.  

“Wait ‘til I catch you, you little scamp!” the man cried out, though not really considering running after Louis.  

“In your dreams, _du_ _Schwein!”_   

  Louis and Harry laughed out loud until they were out of breath, pedalling faster to escape. Louis took the lead, closely followed by Harry. They ended up in a small road between two buildings; it was a shortcut they’d found one day as they were exploring the neighbourhood with some friends from school. The road increasingly narrowed as they rushed by, and Louis slowed down to avoid injuring the small children playing near the doorways. A woman was stretching white sheets on a clothesline. Louis ran straight through them, successfully unhooking them from the line. The woman yelled at both of them as Harry zoomed over the white sheets, the muddy wheels leaving awful brown traces on the fabric. The slender road opened on the area around their primary school. 

“Reckon we should’ve apologized,” said Harry, peeking over his shoulder. “Wasn’t very nice.”   

“I never say sorry,” Louis replied and rung the little bell between the handlebars. “Except when it comes to you.” He smiled, and Harry rung his bell too. “Have you learned the poem?” he added.  

“There was a poem to learn?”   

“You’d better get ready to get your fingers chopped off. He’ll pull out the metal ruler, that one, he’s ruthless.”  

   Harry gulped. Lately, he’d made quite a good show hiding his anxiety, but the truth remained that he deeply feared Herr Van der Valk and his punishments. He had seen Louis getting beaten several times in the hallways. Most of the time, it was a punishment for having fought during recess (here is a good lesson to teach young children: the only way to prevent further violence is by using violence, of course). Once, it was because he had replied “the rhinoceros” instead of the Rhine when asked the name of the largest river crossing Germany.  

“Rest assured,” said Louis, solemnly. “If he touches you, I’ll pee in his desk drawer during recess.  

“You’d do that?”  

“Try me.”  

   They parked their bicycles in the school yard and rushed inside just as the bell rang.  

   In class, Louis began to feel uneasy as he looked around and saw that everyone was quietly reciting the poem to themselves. He wanted to show Harry that he wasn’t scared, but really, he dreaded Herr Van der Valk’s punishments. The previous day, the poem had been written on the left pliable side of the board for the boys to copy it down on their notebooks. Today, though, the left side was pinned against a wall and the poem was no longer visible.   

   Once the usual racket subsided, Herr Van der Valk stood before the class with his metal ruler in his hand. A deathly silence fell in the room, “Let’s see who’s passing today…. Teller!”  

   Louis slowly stood up, tucking his orange jumper in his shorts. He made a small cross sign against his chest and his lips moved silently to recite a short prayer, and a couple of laughs erupted in the room.  

 “You’ve learned it, have you not?”   

“ _Natürlich_ , I have, Herr Van der Valk.”   

“ _Gut._ Up you go, then.”  

   Louis slowly walked up to the board and met Harry’s mocking stare on his way. He faced the class and hid both of his hands behind his back. Julius Meinhardt, the boy who'd never wanted to talk to Harry, raised his thumb at him, making a silent promise that he would help him.   

“When you’re ready, Teller.”  

   Louis nodded and tried to remember the first verse, _“Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht Und ..._ Uh .. _.”_   

   Harry’s smile grew bigger and goofier as he pressed his chin against his palm to keep from laughing. Louis hopelessly looked at Julius who pretended to softly blow on something, mimicking the words. He made small gestures with his hand, as if he was imitating… The wind.  

 _“Und Wind!”_ happily exclaimed Louis. _“Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind.“_   

   He smiled, feeling exceedingly proud of himself. There was a long silence followed by a sarcastic slow clap in the back of the class.  

“Carry on, please,” pressed Van der Valk.   

“I’ve forgotten the rest, sir.”   

“I see. You mean to say that you’ve not learned it?”  

 “… Nein, Herr Van der Valk,” he confessed sheepishly.   

“Well, it appears we’ve got ourselves a loafer and a liar. Do you know what happens to liars?”  

 “I do.”  

 “Go wait in the corner, facing the wall. I’ll deal with you later.”  

    Louis walked with his head bowed towards the left side of the board. He stood behind it, looking up at the poem written before him. His plan had worked perfectly and he began to wonder if he wasn’t an undercover genius as he began to read.  

“I remember!” he shouted. _“Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm, er fasst ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm.”_   

   The boys laughed as Louis picked up his reading. Herr Van der Valk squinted, utterly dazed. Suddenly, someone knocked at the door. The headmaster walked in without waiting for an answer and all the boys abruptly stood up in front of their desk in a single loud rumble of chairs moving backwards.  

   Louis stopped reading, but did not leave his corner behind the board. The headmaster took a few steps towards Herr Van der Valk’s massive wooden desk, ignoring the children’s greetings. He briefly looked at Louis’ thin legs and scarred knees peeking out from under the board. He shook his head and leaned toward the teacher, “We’ve just received an order this morning, Herr Van der Valk. The Nazi government imposes, and I quote, a maximum limit of 1.5% on non-Aryans’ admission in schools and public universities. They’ve also fired all the Jewish civilian workers and most children’s parents have been forced to go on early retirement.”  

   Van der Valk frowned. He instructed Julius to watch the class and picked up the conversation, “What does that have to do with anything?”   

“The limit’s been exceeded.”  

 “Nonsense.”   

Julius caught bits of what they were saying as he stood near the board. He had a sly smile as he looked at a couple of boys in the class, raising his eyebrows in a single, mocking motion. His eyes stopped on Harry. 

“We ought to send some children back home and that must be done before the authorities start inspecting the premises. I know for a fact that if they’re in charge of the duty, it’ll certainly not be a gentle procedure. That’s why I’ve been scouring all classes this morning – before _they_ do.”  

 “How can we expel that many students? Isn't it unwarranted? What would happen to…”  

 “These are the orders, and everything is warranted, Herr Van der Valk. If I could help it, I would in a heartbeat. But my words are worthless. I’ve brought the list with me – here are the four boys who’ll have to leave your class. As for their education, further on, I believe private schools can still accept them – the law doesn’t apply to independent institutions.”   

“Private schools,” Herr Van der Valk scoffed. “With their unemployed parents? That’s wretched.”  

   The old teacher sat at his desk with his chin resting against the back of his hand. The headmaster gave him a sympathetic smile, then proceeded to name the boys who were to leave the school.  

“Yaakov Abramo… Harold Steckelberg…”  

   Harry hadn’t heard much of their conversation but suspected that it must have been serious, for the way Herr Van der Valk’s thick eyebrows were knitted together in a deep scowl and the knowing glare that Julius was still giving him. He put his notebook in his leather satchel, hoisted it on his back and rose to follow the other boys.  

“Follow me, boys,” said the headmaster. “We’ll wait for your parents, or we'll write them a letter, and… Well, we’ll explain the situation.”  

“Are we going to go back home?” asked little Yaakov, clutching to the straps of his backpack.  

“I’m afraid so.”   

“Why? The day isn’t over and we’ve not yet written today’s lesson down or played outside or anything.”  

 “Your parents will take care of it all, now all of you, follow me.”  

    Louis shut the left side of the board at once. He was frowning and clearly fuming; why did _they_ get to go back home?   

“That’s not fair! First, I get picked and not them, and then they get to leave early and I don't!”  

“Teller!” threatened Herr Van der Valk. “One more word from you...” 

 The four boys lined up in an orderly row and left the classroom under the other students’ heavy stare. Louis caught Harry’s loose sleeve before he left and managed to whisper, “Where’re you going, Harry?”  

  He shrugged and avoided all contact.   

  Then they all left and the classroom had never been more silent. And it remained so until the last school bell rang. Needless to say, no paper airplanes were made that day.  

  

***  

  

   

   During recess, Louis found a way to sneak inside. He padded along the narrow hallway until he reached the headmaster’s office. The door read “ _Schulleiter_ ” in big black letters and it was closed, but as he peeked inside through the little window, he saw Yaakov Abramo’s parents sitting in front of the headmaster’s desk. Yaakov’s mother was in tears as she held up a handkerchief to her nose, and his father looked as though he was going to burst with rage. The headmaster was all sweaty, just like Louis when he gets back from playing outside, except that he didn’t look like he’d just gotten back from a successful kickabout in the streets. He was gesturing like mad in an attempt to relieve himself of all accusations. When Louis placed his ear against the door, he could hear some parts of their heated conversation, _“We’re not the evil ones, my good sir! We want to keep the children safe! Your son could attend a Jewish institution, he’d be safer there…. We never meant for this to happen! It’s the system.”_    

   Louis had put too much of his weight on the door and it flew open. He stumbled forward and was suddenly exposed to the Abramo’s and the headmaster. The mother’s teary eyes turned into a look of surprise as she spotted Louis.  

“Is he one of the boys who’ve been expelled?” she asked in a small voice.  

“No,” said the headmaster, gesturing for Louis to shut the door and leave. “No, but his friend is.”  

   Expelled.  

   Louis hoped he was mistaken, and that by “his friend” he meant someone else, not Harry. He had lots of friends, even older boys and some girls from the all-girls school three blocks away. Harry wasn’t the only one – it couldn’t be him.  

  He turned around and made for the exit but stopped in his tracks as he spotted a wooden bench against the wall. Harry and two other boys were sitting side by side. Louis tucked his fringe underneath his tweed cap, walked over to the bench and took a seat next to Harry. Their legs were swaying quietly above the ground and Louis thought twice about showing him his bag full of coloured marbles that he had won and that he intended to give him as a gift. Harry had kept his head down and was fidgeting with a loose thread from his blue waistcoat.  

“What’re you doing here?” Louis asked innocently as he scooted closer.  

“They’re going to talk to my parents.”  

There it was. The big scandal. Louis protested, “You’ve done nothing wrong, have you? They’ve gone mad! The headmaster only ever calls Mutti over when I’ve been fighting a lot. Have you gotten into a fight?”   

“No – what are you on about? They’re expelling me. I’ll never go to school again.”  

 “Never?” Louis gaped at him. “Well, talk about luck… Never having to learn by heart stupid poems or getting beaten up with rulers.”  

 “You don’t get it, do you? Papa’s been fired from his work and I’m not allowed to go to school because we’re Jews. And that’s unfair because Papa’s done nothing wrong and neither have I. It’s not fair.”  

  Harry’s eyes were wet by the time he’d finished ranting, but he swallowed the tears back. Louis kept quiet and mulled it over while looking at his own feet. His fingers played with the bottom of his bag of marbles, making them rattle. He heard a couple of boys playing outside. They were playing War and formed two separate clans, pretending to fire at each other with machine guns. Some went as far as to imitate the French soldiers in the trenches, while others attacked them with imaginary gas bombs, their imagination ignited by the stories their parents and grandparents would tell at the dinner table. 

   He and Harry enjoyed War – in fact, they’d play every day. Louis was a brave German soldier and Harry was General Markolfe Hundekopf, and the two of them made an infallible duet, shooting the Frenchmen at any given occasion. Harry had almost _died_ once, but Louis had saved his life when he was nearly suffocating from the toxic gas in the trenches.  

But now all these role-playing games seemed trivial. He’d never seen Harry so upset.  

“How long are you going to be expelled?”  

“Are you stupid?” 

“... _This_ is stupid,” Louis looked down in embarrassment. 

 “I quite like school.”  

  Louis gasped loudly and truly felt like Harry had just insulted his ancestors. Harry smiled a little, “It’s true. Papa says, if I want to become a pilot, I need to get the best marks. Also, I’ve got to keep my eyes healthy – I don’t know what he means by that, but I’ll do it.”   

“Karla ought to find a way out of this,” said Louis, recalling how resourceful Harry’s foster mother proved to be over the times.  

   Harry did not want Karla to get more worried than she already was. Despite his young age, he had this heavy feeling of being a constant burden for whoever had to look after him. That was why he tried to fend alone most of the time. He managed to smile and said, “She will.”  

 “What about us?”   

“What _about_ us?”  

 “We’ll still be best mates, won’t we?” asked Louis with growing concern in his pale blue eyes.   

“Yes, we will, silly. We’re neighbours.”  

   Louis simmered down a little. Although, he wasn’t completely reassured. The mere idea of not getting to see his best friend every single day gave him this unpleasant lump in his throat.  He handed him the bag of coloured marbles as the bell rang, “It's for you. Enjoy your first day of vacation. I’ll take your place and I’ll be General Markolfe Hundekopf today.”  

   Harry shook his head and took the bag, which he shoved in his satchel, nestling it between his books. Louis would undoubtedly never understand the stakes of the situation, and would never be entirely grateful for all the privileges he had, but Harry was, and had always been, quite fond of his innocence.  

   

***  

  

Little Lotte had just turned two years old. She was clumsily running on the grass, wild blonde curls bouncing around her head, chasing a yellow butterfly that had landed on her little sister’s face while she was sleeping in her stroller.   

   The more she ran, the more she distanced herself from the small spot in the shadow of a massive oak tree where Karla and Frieda were sitting, sharing heartfelt laughs over a plentiful meal on a checkered tablecloth.    

   Whenever the butterfly thought it was safe from the child, Lotte proved it wrong by crouching halfway down and awkwardly closing her chubby little fists around it. The small yellow-winged insect always managed to escape. “ _Komm her_ , Bettie!” Lotte grunted, annoyed and out of breath. 

   Louis appeared out of the blue and grabbed Lotte before she ran any further and then he lifted her off of the ground, “That’s enough. Mutti’s been calling you for ages.”  

   Lotte fussed and kicked in his arms and pleaded for him to let her down, “Let go of me!”   

“I’ll let you go when you’ve finished eating.”  

   Harry, who’d been watching from afar, kneeled down on the fresh grass and gently brought his hands together over Bettie the Butterfly. He made sure to leave enough room for it to breathe, however not enough for it to escape.  

  The three children returned to the picnic spot where their mothers were sitting. It was a warm April weekend and Karla and Frieda had planned a day out in the park so that the children could play and get some fresh air after an eventful week.  

   Karla had found work at a local bookstore while Ariel was looking for a new job – he’d take any opportunity, finding work in the city had become exceedingly difficult. Luckily, they’d had some savings on the side, and they could afford to hire a private teacher for Harry, so that he could keep learning from home. The fees for private establishments were astonishingly high, and a religious institution was certainly not the kind of education Ariel and Karla wanted Harry to have – so it appeared obvious that home-schooling was the only solution. At least, at home, he wouldn’t risk undergoing another unwarranted expulsion. Everything was back on track and once more, Harry had the irrefutable proof that Karla was a marvellous, resourceful woman.  

   Lotte sulked beside her brother as he shovelled a generous serving of mashed potatoes onto his plate. Karla giggled as she poured some fresh water in a glass for him, “Lotte? What’s wrong?”  

 “Bettie's gone,” she whined and hid her face against Louis’ cotton jumper.  

“Who is Bettie?”  

   Harry chose this very moment to open his hands, releasing the yellow butterfly. It flew away, and Harry smiled in wonder as he watched it rise. Lotte gasped, “Bettie!”  

   She leaned over, landing on all fours in the middle of the tablecloth in a desperate attempt to catch it. Not only had the butterfly flown away from Harry's hands, but Lotte had knocked over a jug of water that had spilled all over her periwinkle blue dress. Fearing that Frieda would scold her, Lotte instantly broke into tears, so that everyone would feel guilty, and then went over to Harry’s side, grabbing his arm for dear life.  

   If there was one person who Lotte was absolutely crazy about, it was Harry. At home, the mere mention of his name was enough to make her beam and jump with delight.  

   Frieda separated them and rid her of her wet clothes to dress her up in a spare white sundress.  

Louis scoffed while munching on a biscuit, “See, all you ever do is ruin it for everyone.”  

  Frieda gave him The Look, “The mouth on this one! Apologize to your sister, you’re being mean.”  

 “Sorry, Lotte. May Harry and I go play, now?”  

 “Yes. Don’t go too far, though. They're roaming around, they are.”   

Karla, who was helping Lotte out of her wet shoes, looked around in apprehension, expecting to spot a couple of officers strolling around. 

“We won’t!” the boys yelled in unison as they left. 

  The afternoon sun was shining brightly, even though it was only the beginning of April. Cicadas and birds chirruped loudly – they could’ve almost mistaken this day for a warm July afternoon.  

   Baby Elsa was dozing away in her stroller, hidden in the shade of the leaves, while Frieda gently rocked her back and forth. Lunch was over and the boys were playing further.  

“Higher, Harry, _higher!”_   

   Harry unconsciously stuck his tongue out, focusing on the small remote control in his hands. He tried to guide his airplane in a straight line, but the sunlight forced him to squint. He lowered his tweed cap to cover his eyes and tried to get the plane to fly back to him.  

“Why won’t you make it go higher?” Louis complained, arms crossed on his chest.  

“It might crash.”   

“Don’t worry – give me that.”   

“If you break it…”  

“I said, don’t worry!”  

   Harry handed him the remote and Louis happily grabbed it. Maneuvering the airplane gave him a sense of control he had sought his entire (albeit short) life and, suddenly, his best friend’s obsessions made sense. He’d sent the plane so high above and so far away that he had to run after it. And that is exactly what he did, tuning out Harry who was calling his name behind him.   

   Louis ran through the tall grass as lilac flowers whipped his bare calves. He wasn’t looking in front of him, only at the sky. He wanted to see how high the airplane could go before it comes crashing down.  

   He was running so fast; Harry felt as if Louis’ feet were no longer touching the ground. He was just short of taking off.  

   He envied him more than anything else, right about now.  

   Had Louis known that within a few years, the British and the Russians would send these very same planes and that they would fly over their heads with their deafening engines, bombing the streets, blowing up buildings, killing people and rendering him half deaf, he would have thought twice before playing.  

   His right foot bumped into a protruding tree root and he fell face down against the ground, dropping the remote control on his way down. Harry rushed to his side, kneeling beside him. Louis had bitten his bottom lip so hard that it was bleeding profusely. He wiped the blood with the back of his hand but did not seem to care about the pain as he got up almost immediately and picked up the remote.  

“Louis!”   

“Where's the airplane?” Louis panicked while looking frantically around him.  

“Louis.”   

“Where is it?” He wiped again the blood from his lips and he winced at the stinging feeling. “Ouch.”  

   His answer came as he looked up. The plane was stuck in the branches of a tree and the propellers were still running. A soft breeze made the branches shiver and Louis and Harry watched, stunned and speechless, convinced that it’d fall off and shatter on the ground and that it would be the end of the world.  

   Nothing happened. The plane was stuck and Louis had never felt so small.  

“Sorry, Harry,” he apologized, his voice laced with upcoming sobs, “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to get it stuck.”  

“It’s all right.”  

   It wasn’t. Harry wanted to cry and yell at him and tell him that he was stupid and go home. But he did nothing of it and swallowed back his tears.  

“We're still friends, right?” Louis asked, slightly frightened.  

   Harry did not answer, and Louis felt his blood freeze in his veins. He wiped off all the blood from his mouth with the hem of his jumper and started escalating the tree to retrieve the toy. He climbed up the trunk with a bewildering ease. His knees flayed against the bark, but his will to win back their friendship overcame the pain by a long shot. His hands grabbed the first thick branch they met.  

“Are you insane?!” cried Harry.  

   Louis turned a deaf ear to him, determined to make amends. He propped himself up on a thinner branch. He would get the airplane back even if it meant hurting himself very badly.  

   Harry knew that it was an impossible mission. It was too high and if Louis were to fall from his branch, he would not make it. Too bad for the plane, he thought, Louis was much more important. He could always buy another one (No, he could not), but another Louis wasn’t something he could afford even with years of savings.  

“Get down!”  

   Louis growled as he hoisted himself on an even thinner branch – it wavered dangerously under his weight.  

“No.”   

“Please.”   

“If I don’t get it back, we can’t be friends, can we?”  

“We’ll still be friends! Get back here, please!”  

 “Promise?” Louis looked down, tasting blood in his mouth. 

“I promise,” said Harry with a pleading look. “Please, please get down. We’re friends.”  

“Forever?”  

 “Forever. If you want us to.” 

   Louis looked up at the tree. He still had quite a way to go before he could reach the toy. He felt a surge of relief. He very carefully got down the trunk but despite his slow movements, he still fell down with a loud thud on the mud. Harry kneeled at his side and put a hand on his shoulder to make sure he was all right. Louis was lying on his side, his hand covering his injured knee.  

“Here, take my hand… I’ll help you up. You’re all scratched up.”  

  If he didn’t know him any better, Louis could’ve sworn he heard a hint of sadness in his voice. He apologized, “Sorry, Harry. I’ve tried my best, I really have.” 

“It wasn’t worth it.”  

“It was, though. Your plane’s stuck up there because of me, I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”  

   Louis on the verge of tears wasn’t a very common sight. He was the solid kind of boy who’d rather grit his teeth until they hurt than cry in public because he’d gotten injured. Seeing him this way made his heart ache like never before.  

“It’s just… It’s just a toy,” said Harry, trying to convince both Louis and himself. “Isn’t it?” 

 “Yes, but…”  

“I still love you very much.”  

   And then Louis fell silent. Harry hugged him tightly, and he returned it, feeling much better. He rested his chin against Harry’s shoulder and confessed, “You’re my best friend in the whole wide world and you know that, don’t you?”   

“I do. And you’re mine too.”  

   Harry craned his neck and looked up at the top of the tree to see his airplane. He felt a small pinch in his heart, but it went away as Louis hugged him tighter. 

   Frieda's voice popped the growing bubble they’d been trapped in for the past minute, “Boys! We’re leaving, come gather your things, it's about to rain.”  

   They pulled apart and walked up to them. Frieda gasped as she spotted her son covered in scratches. His bottom lip was swollen, his chin was scratched and his knees and elbow were scraped.  

   “My God, look at the state of you!” She crouched to have a closer look at his injuries with a frown that, over the time, had settled permanently on her forehead. “Good Heavens, what am I going to do with you…”  

“Lovely,” he scoffed. “I’ll tell you what, get rid of me and then Frau Steckelberg will adopt me and you’ll be glad that I’m gone. ‘S not like you ever loved me, anyway…”  

   Frieda knew better than to reply to Louis’ nonsense. Whenever she did, it often ended with one of his fits of tears. She dusted off his shirt and shorts, smoothing out the wrinkles and turning a deaf ear to his complaints.  

   “At least, _Harry_ likes me,” he muttered.  

Harry, who’d found his favorite spot (near Karla), smiled shyly as she stroked his chocolate, curly hair.  

“I know, Lou,” said Frieda. “Though, I wonder sometimes if it isn’t too much.”  

 


	5. July 1935 - Zusammen.

 

 

> Together

 

The benefits of having been kicked out of school for absurd reasons were Professor Wechsler’s private lessons.

   Harry never missed an opportunity to thank his father for everything he’d done for him. They’d had to ration monthly expenses to allow him to keep learning and studying, but as Ariel argued, education was the only effective weapon against ignorance, in a world where people were slowly losing all of their humanity and compassion.

  Harry was now eleven years old, and Professor Wechsler had noticed that he was particularly talented when it came to scientific subjects. Art and literature usually left him indifferent; he’d get his work done, sure, but nothing made his eyes shine as brightly as when he managed to solve a tough equation. He’d told his professor that he would love to, one day perhaps, be the one to elucidate one of the most complicated and famous mathematical problems. He was gutted to learn that there was no current Nobel prize for mathematics.

  He’d spend all of his spare time in the library, studying or reading. The most interesting books out there had been burnt and destroyed at the Opernplatz, as a matter of fact. It had been a grand moment in the month of May 1933. The great fire had burnt through the night, engulfing hundreds of thousands of pages written by the most vile and putrid non-German authors, leaving an –appropriately- acrid smell stagnating around Behrenstraße, the air swirling with tiny paper confetti. Who would want to read those, anyway?

There was nothing much left to read, but it was better than nothing. If there was one thing Harry had learned about the Germans, it was that they oddly enjoyed setting fire to the first inconvenience that came their way. Documents, buildings, humans all the same. Plus, it was a fantastic spectacle for those who knew how to appreciate it.

   When he wasn’t with his professor or studying in the library, Harry liked to visit Herr Maisel, the owner of his favourite toy store. By now, he was encouraged to call him Ezra, but he kept calling him Herr Maisel and using the formal _Sie_ when addressing him. He helped in the shop, alongside Ezra’s son, a tall, twenty-something-year-old man who smelled strongly of cologne and whose eyes matched his jet-black hair, always parted on the side and stylishly sculpted with gel. Harry would watch him from a distance, intimidated by his strong frame but paradoxically intrigued by his character, eager to know more about him ever since he’d spotted the little star-shaped pendant on his chest. 

  His curiosity was short-lived, however. The man had left the country two months ago and had set sail for America with his fiancée. His last days in Berlin were tense, and Harry may or may not have been listening to his conversation with Herr Maisel, all the way from the back of the shop.

   He only managed to catch snippets of it, and none of it made sense.

 

_You’re crazy, Papa._

_It’ll be hell in ten years._

_They’ve lost their minds._

_When you’ll come to your senses, there’ll be a place for you in Manhattan._

 

The man had hopped into the back shop to say goodbye to Harry before he left. He’d smiled at him and he’d told him, “Good luck, little one. You’ll need it. Don’t let them take your life away from you.”

  Harry hadn’t quite understood, then. It dawned on him a few years later.

 

*** 

   It was no surprise that after having spent so much time with them, Harry ended up unconsciously imitating the behaviours he witnessed all day long: Karla and Ariel read, day and night. They’d never be seen without a book in their hands. And when they put on their reading glasses and delved into the dry yellowing pages, Harry knew that they were not to be disturbed.

   So, on a Wednesday morning, at the kitchen table, he pulled out his copy of _Mein Kampf_ that he’d borrowed from the library and picked up where he’d left off. Karla immediately reached out and snatched the book out of his hands, eyeing him down, more disappointed than confused.

“You really think he’s worth your time?” 

“’S good for culture.” He shrugged.

“Culture... Good Heavens. That’s _some_ culture, all right. I’m not even Jewish and I wouldn’t read that poor excuse for a book under torture. You know what? Look.”

   She nudged the book under the kitchen table’s shortest leg, effectively stabilizing it. It’d been wavering and knocking on the floor at the slightest movement, and so Karla sat back up with a tiny smile, feeling rather pleased with herself, “There. Found a use to it.”

“Brilliant, my love.” Ariel lifted his glass of water as a toast to her.

“I’ve got to give it back at some point.” Harry mentioned. “I was just getting to the problematic part.”

“What, the front page?” 

“ _Alles gut._ ” Karla rose from her seat. “Here’s something to read instead. Last copy in town, the rest got burnt down.”

   She reached on top of the fridge and pulled out a brown paperback book. The title read, _In Westen nichts Neues_ , written by Erich Maria Remarque. She’d started reading it, had probably gotten distracted by something, and had left it there in the kitchen. There were dozens of books strewn about in the flat, and Harry quite liked the sight of it. The masterpiece of their home was undoubtedly their hefty wall-mounted book case. There must’ve been hundreds of them, sorted in alphabetical order, ranging from German classics to foreign poetry compilations, philosophy essays and biographies, from Thomas Mann to Aristotle; and American authors had their own section too. The Berlin _Stabi_ paled in comparison to the Steckelbergs’ collection.

   Harry put his new novel down next to his plate and thanked her.

   There was a knock at the door. Karla set down her fork, “I’ve got it.”

    Ariel pulled apart a piece of his bread and chucked it at Harry, “Think fast!” Harry skilfully caught it in his hand and froze with a hesitant smile on his lips, mouth still full of food.

“Tell me, what’s the capital city of France?”

“ _Parrish_ ” he mumbled with his full mouth. He forced himself to swallow everything down, and repeated, “Paris.”

“Latvia?”

“Riga.”

 

“Peru?”

“Lima." 

“Cyprus?”

“Nicosia.”

“Berlin?”

“Germany... Wait. Uh....” Harry burst out laughing, gently kicking Ariel with his foot under the table. “That wasn’t fair.”

“Granted. Round two." 

  Harry mentally prepared himself for another wave of questions, but the game never resumed. Karla returned to the kitchen.

“Professor Wechsler’s fallen ill. He can’t make it today.”

“Oh. Can’t I go to him instead?”

“Let the man rest, you’ve been at it the whole month. Don’t you think you deserve a day off?” Karla suggested, grabbing a piece of cloth to wipe the crumbs off the table top. “It’s summer.” she reminded him with a little smile.

“So what?”

“Your mother’s right. It’s warm out there, it’s sunny, it’s beautiful. Go out, have fun with your friends. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, my boy, there’ll be plenty of time to study.”

  Harry pouted but he finished his meal without making a fuss.

“And it’s been a week since you and Louis last saw each other. He’s your best friend. What’s the matter?”

“It’s his father.”

“What about him?”

“Nothing.” He brought his plate to the sink and started washing it. She didn’t press, but he knew that it’d be brought up sooner or later, and that he’d have to explain himself. He didn’t like thinking about it, let alone share it with somebody. He left the kitchen, walked into his tiny room and cleaned up a little, putting away dirty laundry and neatly folding the clothes on his chair. He tidied up his desk, reorganizing his stationary and sorting his countless model airplane blueprints. By the end of the year, he hoped to build his very own model.

   Small pebbles thrown against his window caught his attention. It wasn’t loud, but it was persistent enough to know that whoever was throwing them was not going to give up unless he opened up. And so, hesitantly, he walked to the window, pulled the curtains apart and opened the dark brown shutters. His head peeked outside; the air was warm and heavy, and a burning wind kissed his pink cheeks. As expected, three boys of his age were standing on the sidewalk. 

 And Louis Teller was one of them.

   He’d grown a bit in the past year, fiercely determined to keep their height difference at a stable number – it did wonders for his self-esteem. His shoulders were a little broader, visible under his dirty white t-shirt. His sunburnt skin contrasted sharply with the clear blue of his eyes. Harry still had the body of a nine-year-old, but he was done complaining. He knew his time would come.

 Louis looked up and placed a hand on his forehead to protect his eyes from the sun, “Come down, Einstein. You’re rotting away, in there.”

 Harry looked at Julius and Frank standing behind Louis. Frank motioned for him to come and Julius just stared at him with a blank face. He closed the shutters and left his room.

   Frank Andelman had grown to earn a well-deserved place in Harry’s heart. They weren’t the best of friends, but Frank wasn’t hostile to him, and he made him laugh sometimes. He had hair like a wheat field in summer, and he was a particularly fast runner. He was very skinny, his legs looked like two matches in a pair of worn-out shoes. He laughed at everything; he’d get in trouble for it, and then he’d laugh about it, unabashedly flashing his signature gap-toothed smile. But still, he took his role as a referee between Louis and Julius very seriously. These two had been friends forever, yet they fought more often than not.

    Julius was tall. And he was strong. He had knee-high socks and his hair was always neatly parted at the side, so well-capped, you could still see the traces of the fine comb. His mother wouldn’t let him out of the house if he looked anything less than perfect. He had a perpetually austere expression on his face, features locked into a cold sober, businessman-like countenance. Impeccable, with a neutral breasted jacket, even if he was going to play football. Louis knew better than anyone that Julius’ father would spank him if he came home with dirty or torn clothes. And so, when Julius got on his nerves, a well-aimed handful of mud was punishment enough, and made for a delicious revenge. To fulfill his need for vengeance, Louis would secretly follow Julius to his house and would press his ear to their door just to hear him cry and plead, “It was Louis! It wasn’t my fault, it was Louis!” And that, was worth all the fights in the world.

   Once Harry stepped outside, he looked up at a window in the building next door, and spotted little Lotte, who was now four and a half years old. She had her arms crossed over the thick edge, with her chin resting on them, long blonde hair gently flowing with the wind. She liked to pretend that she was Rapunzel, a German folk tale’s princess, with her lengthy hair, cooped up in her tower. And it hadn’t taken her long to find her Prince, “Here’s my husband!” she shouted to her little friends playing in front of the doors and pointed at Harry. “He’s mine, and mine only.”

  Liesel, a short, chubby little girl, looked up at the window, “Stop lying, Lotte. He’s too old for you!”

“It’s true!” Lotte protested, leaning over the edge. “Harry, tell them we’re married!”

“Happily,” he said, and blew a kiss to the window. 

Lotte blushed, pretended to catch the kiss and placed it on her cheek. She looked back at Liesel,

“You’ll never get married, you little pig!”

   She slammed the shutters at once, and of course, Frank burst out laughing.

“You’ve made a lovely woman out of her, Louis.” said Julius with a condescending tone that had Louis sneering at most.

“Didn’t get it from me.” he shrugged. “And oh. Look who’s finally come down. Welcome back.”

   Harry walked toward the little group with his hands in his pocket, still unsure whether he was ready to spend a day surrounded by Louis’ friends. And for good reason.

   Louis didn’t waste a second and wrapped his arm around his waist, pulling him closer, “We don’t even see you anymore.”

“I was working,” Harry said, lower than usual. “I’ve got English lessons to learn.”

“Don’t need much English to survive here.”

“It’s still good to know.”

“Have you found the meaning of life, then?” Frank popped up behind them, smiling at Harry. “Studying during summer... What a waste!”

“What are we doing?” Harry asked, avoiding Julius’ eyes at all costs as they strolled down the narrow street, avoiding cars and bicycles. 

“We needed one more player for a game,” said Julius, holding up a leather-covered football. “Axel’s away for the month, we’re one short.”

‘Well, I can’t play f-”

“Yes, you can,” Louis cut him, digging his fingers into Harry’s hip. “It’s all good fun.”

“I don’t know how to play. I’ll just ruin it for you.”

   Louis softly sighed and let go of his waist, kicking a pebble around with the tip of his shoe. He didn’t say it out loud, but Harry was relieved that he was no longer holding him. They were both used to these subtle, outwardly meaningless little gestures. Little gestures that essentially meant “I’m here, can you feel it?”. They usually avoided being so touchy in front of the other boys. On rare occasions, they’d let their guard down and let themselves go; Louis would wrap an arm round his waist and let his hand crawl under his shirt, softly stroking his skin, or Harry would gently hold his wrist as they walked side by side. Whenever anything of the sort happened, Frank and Julius would just look at them out the corner of their eyes, then they’d look at each other, and Louis and Harry would instantly know that they were being severely judged. 

  The boys stopped in front of a block in the neighbouring street, shooting the roughed-up football around to keep busy.

   Frank swiped the football from Julius and started bumping it off his feet and knees, intent on not letting it touch the ground. Never in his life had he been more concentrated – Louis and Julius would know, he’d spend the entire class dozing off in the back and would only wake up when Van der Valk raised his voice.

   Louis and his friends had made football their new religion. Fierce kickabouts replaced the iconic game of War at recess, and they’d keep the game going well after the school day ended. They played on the sandy ground down by the construction field every single day since the beginning of summer. They would stop in the middle of the afternoon, pop by Frank’s family-owned inn to get something to eat, and resume their game until it would get too dark to see the ball.

 Harry, on the other hand, hardly stepped outside anymore.

“50, 51, 52... _Heilige Scheisse,_ Kumpel,” Julius was keeping count of the kicks, marveling at the –possible- new world record that Frank was setting, “53, No! No, your hand touched it, _Dummkopf!_ ”

“It didn’t!” Frank retorted with a huff, deep down aware that he’d already lost. 

   Louis sat down on the sidewalk with his legs spread, “What’s the world record?”

“I don’t know, but I reckon I just beat it.”

“Now, that can’t be right.”

“Whatever, I still beat all of you,” he shrugged. “Louis, you’ve never gone over forty. Julius, twenty-six. Harry? Wanna try?”

   Harry looked at the _dilapidated_ football in Frank’s hand and considered his offer for a short while. But he didn’t see the point in making a fool of himself before they even got on the field, so he politely declined, “I’m good, Danke.” 

   He plopped down beside his best friend, shifting closer when no one was paying attention to them. Louis idly pulled at a handful of grass that was growing between the edge of the pavement and the road. The sun cast a quaint glow on him, like a luminous halo; his hair was gleaming, and the blue of his eyes was made translucent with the light. A thin layer of sweat covered his skin; Harry watched him in complete silence, taking it all in, mind clouded and lips slightly parted. He came out of it with a shudder and looked away, contemplating his own high-top lace up brown shoes. Their naked knees unconsciously touched, and Harry thought perhaps he should’ve worn longer shorts.

  Julius and Frank were arguing about a new foul, but Louis (who usually settled all sports-related conflicts) kept silent, only arching an intrigued eyebrow at them. He casually shuffled to the right until their shoulders brushed against each other. He kept looking straight ahead, but his fingers found their way to Harry’s forearm, gently sliding down his skin until he grabbed hold of his thin wrist. Harry looked down at where they were linked. Louis’ thumb was ever so delicately caressing his hand. It was one of their moments.

  The church bells echoed around somewhere in the distance, and Louis waited for the sound to subside before he spoke, “I’ve missed you.”

   No amount of willpower could’ve prevented that beaming smile from appearing on Harry’s lips. Pure tenderness and fond, was all Louis could read in his eyes. They’d never changed. He had that look; always soft, always tender, for him only.

“Who’s that?” a voice boomed behind them. They spun around at once and came face to face with Johann Wickel, one of Louis’ classmates. They’d been waiting for him to come down so they could get started with the game. 

“That’s Harry,” Louis said, holding onto Harry’s wrist even though he was trying to get away in fear of being caught. “He left the school two years ago.” 

“Doesn’t ring a bell. Can he play football?”

 “’Course. Just needs a little training, is all.”

   Julius caught sight of their hands and scrunched up his nose in contempt, as he always did when he thought that something was odd. It was always a little disturbing to catch Louis and Harry during one of their moments. It felt like he was invading their intimacy. And what an intimacy it was.... “Actually,” he spoke up, catching everybody’s attention. “We’ll be just fine without you two.”

“What are you talking about?” Louis countered, with obvious indignation. “You need me in your team. You’re always begging me to-”

“We’ll manage,” he said firmly, scooping up the ball from the dirty ground and beckoning to Johann and Frank. “You can stay here with your little boyfriend, kiss him all over if you want, we won’t be a bother.”

   Harry finally pulled his hand out of Louis’ grip as the blood rushed underneath his cheeks. Louis froze, unable to conjure up any sort of acceptable answer, and watched as the three boys walked away. He caught Frank’s apologetic smile.

“You’re disgusting,” said Julius, before turning the corner.

  Louis felt a lump growing in his throat and forced himself to swallow it back. He couldn’t help but feel a slight twinge in his heart. He wasn’t seven anymore, he couldn’t break down into tears for anything and everything, even if he’d been hurt like never before. Now, it seemed to him that even a punch in Julius’ face wouldn’t console him, “I hate him,” he whispered quietly, blinking the impending tears away. 

“Why... Why are you still friends?” Harry asked, sheepishly, picking at the skin around his nail to avoid facing him.

“His father saved Vatti’s life during the Great War. They fought together, you know? So obviously, Julius and I have known each other forever, we just had to get along. If it was up to me, I would’ve never become his friend. He thinks his whole family’s better than everyone and he’s rude to Mutti when he comes over. He says that I would’ve never been born if it wasn’t for his father, and that I owe him.”

“No, you don’t. He’s got nothing to do with it.”

   They remained silent for a short while, trapped in their own bubble as always, right in the middle of all the hustle and bustle of the busy street. 

“I know you don’t like it when I get into fights,” said Louis, searching his eyes. “But trust me, if you weren’t there...”

“If I wasn’t there, he wouldn’t have said anything. It’s all my fault, I told you this wasn’t a good idea.”

“Shut it, will you,” Louis let out a small breath of laughter, swiping a finger under his eye to wipe the tears that were still threatening to fall. “It’s you and me. It’ll always be you and me. I don’t need anybody else.” 

   Something in his words made Harry’s heart flutter. The sky had never seemed so small; _you and me, nobody else._

“Shall we take the bikes?” Harry suggested, feeling a wave of confidence washing all over him.

“Let’s.”

 

***

 

   Back in Rockenfeld Strasse in the late afternoon, the two boys had settled back in front of their door, enjoying a well-deserved cone of vanilla ice cream. The heat was almost unbearable. The humid air hung over them, heavy and dense, making their skin all sticky. They laughed at a man queuing up at the tailor’s door; he’d pat his forehead dry with his handkerchief, would pop his hat back on his head and take it right off to wipe the sweat all over again, and again, and again. Lotte had come running out the front door as soon as she’d seen Harry and Louis coming back from their little bicycle trip.

“ _Pleaaaaase,_ Lou, I’m hungry!” Lotte whined, hopping and bouncing on her feet, stretching her arm up to try and reach her brother’s ice cream cone. He was holding it high above his head, with a wide and crooked grin on his lips. 

“Can’t reach it, can’t have it.”

“I’ll scream if you don’t give it to me!”

   Harry softly laughed and leaned against the brick wall, watching them with an amused smile. Louis was quite the entertainer, he knew he’d keep it going for a while because he enjoyed driving Lotte crazy .

“By all means, sweetheart, scream. But if you do, the SS will take you away and they’ll lock you up in a cellar with You-Know-Who.”

  Lotte stopped hopping at once and her eyes widened, “No. No, not the SS, please, I’m sorry.”

   It was common knowledge by now that Louis loved terrorizing poor little Lotte. He’d tell her all sorts of horror stories, using Hitler’s charismatic character as a protagonist in his fantasy tales. But knowing that Hitler was real, unlike dragons, terrified Lotte to death. Whenever her father pronounced Hitler’s name, she’d hide under the kitchen table and cover her ears.

  And, recently, her father seemed to have only one name on his lips. 

  Which didn’t help her case the slightest bit. He would try to reassure her by telling her that Hitler was only a man, like many others, and that he was far from evil. _On the contrary, silly girl!_ he'd argue, _he’s the reason why there’s more food on the table!_

  That would’ve been convincing enough for 7-year-old Louis, but not for Lotte. In his stories, Louis depicted him as a bloodthirsty monster who hides in closets, who bites off children’s toes if they peeked out from under the covers, and who eats them alive if they angered him. He found a glorious role for the SS: they were his little minions who roamed the streets of Berlin and kidnapped little girls who were causing too much trouble. Lotte believed everything he said with a blinding trust, especially since one of them had brutally shoved her off on the sidewalk.

  In the midst of this, Harry thought that Louis was sometimes too rough on her. He truly felt for her, and so he sat down on the curb and patted his lap, motioning for her to sit down, “ _Komm her_ , Lotte.”

  She complied and carefully took a seat on Harry’s knees, wiping her teary blue eyes with the back of her hands, sniffing away and biting her cheeks; she didn’t want to cry in front of her husband, “Are we still married?” she asked in a small, uncertain voice, filled with imminent sobs.

“Of course, we are. Here, you can have my ice cream, I’m not hungry.”

“ _Ja wirklich?_ ”

“Yes, it’s yours now.”

    She hastily grabbed the cone, forgetting all about the monsters roaming around town. Her lips stretched in the biggest toothy smile as vanilla drops started running down her fingers. She kissed Harry on the cheek in appreciation. 

“You’ll not get anything out of my sisters, Harry, quit being nice to them, they’re actual devils,” Louis said, crossing his arms. “I’ve got them coming out of my ears, you’ve no idea what it’s like.”

“Are you jealous or something?”

“Jealous? I’m not jealous.”

“Very well.”

   Louis scoffed and sat down on the curb next to him to tie his loose shoelaces. When Lotte finished her ice cream, she placed a new wet kiss on Harry’s cheek and went off to play hopscotch with other kids. Right when they thought they’d gotten rid of her, little Elsa popped out of nowhere. She was now two years old and she’d been playing nearby, closely watched by Lotte’s girlfriends. She happily skipped to Harry’s side, toying with one of her brown braids and wrapping the hair around her finger. She leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, promptly fleeing the place before Lotte caught her stealing her husband. 

  It went without saying that Louis’ little sisters had a –very—soft spot for their cute neighbour.

“The success. It’s getting to my head,” Harry let out a little laugh, “They love me.”

“Tss. You’re bribing my sisters with food. That’s not love, that’s loyalty, if anything.”

“Also, I’m nice to them. Unlike you.”

“Whatever.”

   They’d engage in playful banter from time to time; petty, futile stuff. They’d never make a big deal out of anything, and Louis figured it was a rule of thumb by now. He liked Harry more than he should have, that was crystal clear in his mind, but their friendship was something so delicate, tenuous and invaluable, he could never risk breaking it by voicing his every last thought.

   Here was one of them: sometimes, when he looked at him, he felt his heart racing for no particular reason, and he had the visceral urge to kiss him everywhere. One day, as they were steadily waking up from a nap, face to face and so unbearably close that their foreheads touched, he’d almost done it.

 An actual kiss was placed on Harry’s temple. A sweet flowery smell let him know that it was Karla before he even turned around.

“I'm going down to the market,” she told him. “I'm glad you're finally out, _Liebling_. Look at yourself, you’re outside!”

  Harry nodded and wiped his cheek again, slightly embarrassed.

“You two _need_ a bath, you're all sweaty,” Karla advised them, switching all her wicker baskets to one hand. “Also,” she said, and Louis and Harry both looked up at her. “I shouldn’t have to say it, but I don’t want you two showering together anymore. You’re old enough to know that, now, aren’t you?”

“Ja, Mama.”

“Ja, Frau Steckelberg.”

  As soon as she left, Louis and Harry looked at each other, “No showers together,” Louis repeated. 

“Do you know what that means?”

“No,” Louis blurted and jumped to his feet, rushing up to the building’s door. Harry caught up with him in no time at all, the both of them jostling and scrambling their way up the stairs, pulling each other by their shirts, trying –and failing—to avoid bumping into their neighbours who cursed them out angrily. They struggled like that until they reached the Steckelbergs’ door. Harry shoved Louis off and ran to the bathroom before Louis could get in. He got rid of his shirt, shrugged his shorts and pants off and rushed into the half-filled bathtub. Then Louis walked in, slowly closing the door behind him.

“I won,” Harry reminded him in case he hadn’t noticed.

“ _Ja_. You did. But you know. Karla’s right. We can’t keep doing that. I’ll let you wash up in peace.”

   Harry’s cheeks turned a slight shade of pink and he frowned in confusion, “Right. Okay. Go on, get out, then.”

“I was just teasing,” his lips stretched into a mocking smile and he began undressing. “Should’ve seen the look on your face.” He unclasped his suspenders and pulled his shirt off from the back, messing up his hair. Harry’s eyes inevitably landed on his bare chest and he noticed just how worryingly thin he was. He could see his ribs under his skin. It was odd, he thought, because Louis ate the equivalent of a truckful of food every single day, “Right, c’mon, get those legs out of the way, I’m coming in.”

   Harry reluctantly drew his legs back against his chest and watched his every last movement as he stepped inside the bathtub and sat down, facing him. God forbid he admits it out loud, but Harry liked to observe. He’d been doing that since day one, really, and it wasn’t like there was anything new to stare at. He knew Louis by heart; he knew him better than his favorite song, even, but he enjoyed the sight of his naked body and he didn’t know exactly what it meant. He liked to compare the both of them. He liked to examine, to admire, to learn. He fell in love, he thought, with the little heart-shaped birthmark on his shoulder.

“We should’ve gone to my place,” Louis said, stretching his arms out and hanging onto the edges of the metal tub. “My shower’s bigger than the tub.”

“No, not your place.” The words had flown out of Harry’s mouth before he could stop them.

  He met Louis’ quizzical stare, “Why not?”

   Harry grabbed his washcloth and let the question hang in the air for a little while. He didn’t want to tell him that Herr Teller scared the living daylights out of him. He knew that he had something to do with the new measures that had been taken and implemented in Berlin in the past two years, and that he was closely related to the Nazi party. He feared that this man would put all sorts of ideas into Louis’ head. Louis had always been this cheery, happy-go-lucky child without a care with the world. It wouldn’t take much to rewire his mind; a couple of well-placed arguments, white lies sprinkled here and there, and a firm fatherly hand would do the trick, he’d become someone else in a heartbeat.

   Harry forced a smile, “It’s cozy in here.”

“Bit cramped, though.”

“Who told you to grow up?" 

He wasn’t lying. Louis did grow taller. His scarred knees were resting under his chin, thighs pressed against his smooth torso. He had a little taunting smile that made his lips curl on one side, “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing, just…” He brought his hand to Louis’ arm and the pads of his fingers brushed over his wet skin, marveling at the little goosebumps that rose up, following the path he drew, “Your arm’s sort of…muscly. Mine’s all thin and weak.”

“It’ll come. Step one: leave your room once in a while, try doing stuff with your arms. Sports, and all that jazz.”

   Harry winced at the word sports, scrubbing the back of his neck with the washcloth.

“The Olympics are coming up next year. They’re holding them here, in Berlin. Vatti’s taking me.”

“Yeah? Let me guess. There’ll be a massive poster at the door: “ _Herzlich willkomen_ – welcome everyone! Jews, stay clear!”

“No…They won’t do that… Will they?... No, they won’t. They can’t possibly do that, Harry, there’ll be people from all over the world! Can you imagine!”

“Watch them.”

“They won’t, trust me!”

“They’ve taken me out of school, they won’t stop there.”

“Right, but it’s not like they’re killing anyone.”

“Who knows.”

   They scrubbed their body in silence, the water slowly growing colder, lapping at the sides of the tub and spilling out in tiny puddles on the white tiles. They took turns washing each other’s back, and when the silence became uncomfortable, Louis spoke up, “Let’s not bring it up again. You get all quiet. Makes me worried.”

“Right, yeah.”

“It’s not right, you know,” Louis pressed, tilting his head and searching his eyes. “What they’re doing to you. Vatti keeps saying it has to be done. But I don’t think so. I hope you know that.”

“I know.”

“I’m being honest.”

“I know, Louis. I know that.”

  This whole topic made him feel uncomfortable. And for good reason. Harry didn’t want to debate and talk about a political regime that was ordering them to be enemies.

  Louis hesitantly stretched out his hand, gently placing it on one of Harry’s knees, peeking out like a tiny hill from under the soapy water.

   Harry had a burning question in mind. He wanted to know whether Louis was proud of his father. But he already knew the answer, and he knew that it would hurt to hear him saying it out loud. Louis idolized his father. He took him places, he taught him tons of brilliant things, he wore a green-gray uniform with two little S-shaped lightning bolts stitched to his black collar. Sure, Louis didn’t agree with what he represented, but that didn’t stop him from loving him.

   Anyone with a sound mind could’ve guessed where the limits of Harry and Louis’ friendship were.

  But the last thing Harry wanted was to break everything. And so, he just put his hand over Louis’ and verbalized the first thing that came to his mind, “So you and Julius, then… Any chance you’ll make up anytime soon?”

“Please,” Louis said. “Twenty-four hours. He’ll be on his knees on my doorstep, begging me to come out and play with him and the rest. Imbeciles, the lot of them.”

“Good, then.”

“You never cause trouble. We’ve never fought. I hope we never do.”

“I hope so, too.”

   They did end up fighting, actually. It would not be before a couple of years, but it was inevitable; it couldn’t even be considered as a spoiler if this were a story. It came to be, due to pent-up anger, unresolved problems, unvoiced frustrations and everything that usually leads two people who once loved each other to want to jump at one another’s throat. Louis recalled that conversation they had in the bathtub when they were both eleven years old, and how he thought they were meant to stay together forever. He regretted that fight they had with every fiber of his being. He hated every little misunderstanding, every little conflict that led up to the end of their story.

“You know what could be fun, Harry?... I’m going to try washing your hair, turn around.”

 

 

 


	6. June 1937 - Blau auf grün.

Blue on Green

 

    Something about strangers in trains fascinated Harry. He liked to craft each traveler’s own life in his mind, but he had never thought he would become one of them at some point; a perfect stranger in a train, with a heavy backstory to his name but no one to even wonder about what his life could have been like.

   He would get to travel in trains, all right. He would get his fair share of journeys. And some would be more unexpected than others.

    The summer after Harry turned thirteen was when he went through a spectacular growth spurt. He and Louis were roughly the same height, now. God had answered his prayers, it was a miracle come true! His voice had gotten deeper and he wasn’t quite used to the sound of it yet. Louis’ voice, on the other hand, hadn’t evolved in depth, but it sounded different for some reason. It was still soft and a tad high-pitched, and it tended to crack at the end of his sentences. Despite some inevitable changes, Louis remained a very handsome boy and Harry would catch himself admiring his every last feature when they were together and when he didn’t notice him. Everything about him reminded him of the Sun, and Harry wasn’t afraid of getting his eyes burnt. Sometimes he pondered the situation, thought very long and hard about it when he was in bed at night, or doing homework. He hated unanswered questions; he’d spend hours on the same math problem if he had to, he wouldn’t give up until he’d found the solution. But Louis was more complicated than the trickiest of math problems. Harry didn’t exactly choose to develop these new, odd feelings toward his best friend. He didn’t like it one bit. And so, he restrained himself, and tried to act as if he wasn’t as attracted to him as the moon was to the earth.

   To add to it, what certainly didn’t help his condition were these holidays out of Berlin, in Louis’ grandfather’s old house. It was the house he’d lived in with his family until he died, two years before the Great War. The place was in the heart of a picturesque Bavarian landscape, in the midst of sweeping green pastures and striking mountains. According to Louis, who always spent part of his summer over there, the house was very big, full of perfect hiding spots and it was located near a small pond. It was a lovely place to spend the summer. Harry had been essentially dragged there by force, although Karla had long been reluctant on letting him go. He’d never been so far from home, but Frieda promised her that Harry would be safe and that pure mountain air would do him a lot of good.

    In the train, Lotte and Elsa were playing cat and mouse, running up and down the narrow hallway, slipping in between the staff’s legs and skirting around annoyed passengers. They’d pop into their family compartment and bounce on the seats, giggling away, hand in hand. Frieda would _beg_ them to find something quieter to busy themselves with. Her tolerance had been constantly dropping down over the years, and especially now that she was pregnant again. Louis wished that it was a boy. He was dying to have a little brother and he’d often joke and say that he would leave the house if it was another girl. He loved his sisters with his entire heart, but a little brother would be more than welcome.

“Food’s here,” Louis announced when he returned to the compartment he shared with Harry and a sleeping old man. He opened the sliding door with his foot and dropped everything on their bench.

Harry picked a chocolate bar, holding it up hesitantly, “May I?”

 “No, you may not, everything’s for me… ‘Course you can. Help yourself.”

 Louis dropped down next to him, swiping his fringe to the side ever so carefully, with a delicate, almost feminine gesture. He’d let his hair grow even though Frieda did not agree. She would periodically chase him around the house with a pair of scissors but eventually she gave up, convinced he’d grow out of it soon enough.

   They both looked outside the window, munching on chocolate cookies and taking in the sight of the familiar countryside landscapes; smudged summer colors and seemingly endless sweeps of fields and grazing cattle. Louis pressed his finger to the glass and pointed to a cow in the distance, “My math teacher.”

   “Not very nice.”

“I can do better, wait,” he whispered. They soon passed by a flock of sheep, and Louis smiled in anticipation, “You, when your hair dries up after showering.”

  Harry chuckled softly, nudging him in the ribs, “Piss off.”

Louis snorted and bit into his chocolate bar, “Where’s the lie, though.”

   Harry absolutely _adored_ the way his eyes would light up and get all crinkly when he laughed. He rested his head on Louis’ shoulder, lulled by the train’s rocky motion, sizing up the man sleeping in front of them. He was old, and he looked very tall, like a china cabinet. His felt hat shaded half of his face, and Harry thought he looked like he belonged in one of those _chiaroscuro_ paintings he had to study. He noticed he had a nasty scar across the face and he wondered what caused it. It might have been done by the hook of a pirate ship captain. Then again, a lingering injury from the Great War was much more plausible. He liked strangers in trains: perhaps he was the most interesting of them. Just as he was starting to imagine the man’s life as a doughty soldier, Louis gently brought his hand up to Harry’s face, his thumb softly stroking his cheek. Harry slightly tilted his head, letting his nose graze against Louis’ neck, faintly breathing against his skin. After a few calming seconds, Louis whispered, “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Why aren’t you eating?”

“Dark chocolate’s got this weird bitter taste.”

“You’re right.”

“Reckon he’d like some?” Harry suggested, nodding at the old man. 

“Let’s ask him.”

  With the chocolate bar in one hand, Louis shifted forward on the bench until he was sat on the very edge. He reached out with his other hand, meaning to touch the man’s shoulder. He never did, though. The door slid open suddenly, and standing there was Herr Teller, Louis’ father. Louis moved away from Harry and toward the window, his heart pounding in his chest.

Herr Teller took a quick look around, voluntarily ignoring Harry’s presence, who stiffened on his seat. Louis tried to offer him the last bar of dark chocolate, with as much composure in his voice as that of a young child asking a favour to a total stranger.

“Do you want some, Vatti? It’s all cocoa.”

  Herr Teller refused, and simply advised them to be quiet so as not to wake the old man.

      

***

  After two more excruciating hours on the road and a short walking tour of the estate, the boys set their belongings in the room they shared together, and had the exact same reaction when they spotted the bunk beds. In a timing that was nothing short of perfect, they looked at each other and took off like race horses, stomping towards the ladder, pulling each other by their clothes to try to reach the top mattress first and claim it for the rest of their stay. They struggled and wrestled –always jokingly—and their quarrels were punctuated by harmless insults, bursts of laughter and cracking voices.  Before their little competition took a turn for the worst, Frieda walked into their room. Louis craned his neck and cracked a smile at her; she had her hands on her hips, and she was giving him The Look, “Boys, please…”

“I wanted the top bunk,” Harry explained, using Louis’ lack of attention as an opportunity to keep climbing.

“Well so did I!”

“Right,” Frieda said, fingers pressed against her temples, “You two could…”

“Both be on top!” Louis suggested. “How right you are, Mutti.”

   Frieda simply stared blankly at the both of them, watching as Louis climbed on top and settled next to Harry, “That’s… that’s not what I meant.”

“We’re fine,” Louis said, attacking Harry with a bone-crushing hug that sent them both crashing on the mattress.

“You’ve grown up, the both of you, you need your own space.”

Louis just frowned, nuzzling his face in the mass of curls that was Harry’s hair, “We’re fine,” he repeated. “Really, we’ll be fine.”

   The issue, though, was bigger than a shared single-bed. Of course, she knew just how close they were, and how close they always had been. She had never felt worried about them, never had a doubt in her mind that they were nothing more than very good friends. As children, they’d hold hands in the street, and she’d roll her eyes at whoever made it sound like an immorality, she’d say, “they’re seven, for Heaven’s sake, let them be. They’re happy, it’s all that matters”. She used to let them sleep together, shower together, do everything together. Today, the discourse had changed. They were no longer little kids, and she was afraid the situation was slowly slipping out of her control. All things considered, Louis looked like he had his mind set already, so she gave up and left the room, still wondering if it was wrong to let them do as they please.

   Later that same evening, when the night had set upon the quiet hills, and after they’d had supper and brushed their teeth, Louis and Harry started feasting on the rest of the colourful sweets they’d bought on the train. Pink wrappers were scattered all around the mattress, quiet whispers and muffled laughs were raising up in the air; sleep was the last thing on their minds. 

“Shall we open the windows? ‘S getting stuffy in there,” Harry offered, running his fingers through his own hair.

“No! Bavarian mosquitoes are beasts, Harry, they’ve got actual weapons! This is their territory, you _cannot_ mess with them. Take your shirt off, you’ll feel better.” 

   Harry complied and Louis did the same. They lay down, shrugging the sheets off with their feet. Even in the stuffiest of heats, Louis glided closer, pressing his chest flush against Harry’s back. He wrapped an arm around him, hugged him even tighter. With no real intentions, he let his hand graze upon his skin, slowly making its way down to his stomach. He stopped when he felt him tense up under his touch.

“All right, _Kumpel?_ ” Louis said in a hushed tone, thrown off by his reaction.

“Ja.”

“You’re a little tense.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

  He withdrew his hand and lay on his back, crossing his arms behind his head and avoiding all contact with Harry, who in reality wanted nothing else than his embrace to help him sleep better.

“Harry?”

  He froze.

“Harry?” he said again. “Be honest. D’you like it when I touch you? Or does it make you feel uncomfortable? If it does, I’ll stop.”

“No, it’s all right. I… I like it when you touch me. And… Well I like touching you, too. Just… People keep saying it’s not normal.”

  Louis winced in utter confusion; he and Harry had never clearly discussed the sordid aspects of their relationship, and now he wanted to start a debate, “So,” said Louis. “You’d like us to stop. Just say it, then.”

“I don’t know. Julius thinks we’re…”

“I know what he thinks,” Louis said, when Harry couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

“Yeah. And those people, well… surely there’s got to be something wrong with them… Right?”

“I don’t know what to think,” he replied, truthfully. “But Julius can go fuck himself, for all I care. And we’re not like these people… I would know, wouldn’t I? You’d know, too. I think it’s just the sort of thing you’d know. If you were… You know.” It sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than anything else, seeing how unsure he sounded by the end.

  For once, Harry was delighted to be in a dark room as it meant that Louis had no way of seeing just how red he must’ve been. This was the most uncomfortable he’d ever been and he wished he had never said anything. He wished Louis was still holding him, with his skin against his own.

“Then again,” Louis added in a low voice, “Our mothers are always on our back, always like, quit doing this, it’s not right… I feel… I feel like maybe this has gone too far?”

“No, no, listen,” Harry swallowed the lump in his throat and continued, “Let’s just forget about this. This was never brought up, yeah?”

 “All right.” 

  But Louis never touched him again that night. Though, before they both fell asleep, he’d said, in the softest voice, “It’s still you and me. Always you and me.”

***

  The next day after lunch, they set their course to the nearby pond, intending on making the most of it. Louis had the honour of inaugurating it first; he swayed on a thick, loose rope tied to the robust branch of a weeping willow overhanging the pond, building up enough momentum to cannonball into the clear water. Harry was watching him, feet planted on the edge of the muddy shore, shirtless, and his arms crossed over his frail, pale body. He looked pleased as he watched Louis emerging, spitting out water and throwing his drenched hair back. He began swimming backwards and called out to him, “You coming or what?”

“ _Ja._ Give me a second.” He dipped his foot in the water and instantly pulled it away, startled by its coldness.

“Today, if you please.” 

  Harry gritted his teeth and jumped at once. He inhaled sharply and froze on the spot. Louis swam towards him, gleefully splashing him and making sure he was soaked from head to toe. Harry splashed him back, his revenge quickly escalating into a water battle.

   After an hour, Lotte showed up barefoot on the shore, ankles dirty with mud and grass. She was dragging Elsa by the hand and she smiled as she spotted Harry peacefully floating on the surface, “Can I come too? Please, Lou!”

“No.”

“Yes, why not,” said Harry at the exact same time.

“Lotte, nein,” Louis pressed and stood up, feet digging into the slippery sand at the bottom. Harry sunk down until the water reached his chin, studying his best friend’s chiseled body and strong back. “I’ll not have you two drowning in here, go back home, I mean it.”

“We won’t drown,” Lotte insisted, holding back her laughter. “It’s hardly even deep.”

“I’ll tell you what, if you _do_ drown, I’ll let you die.”

 She gasped, “I’ll tell Mutti what you just said!”

“Go ahead, Fräulein, I couldn’t care less.”

 “Lotte?” Harry called out to her, “Come, come with me.”

   Louis rolled his eyes and dived back into the water. Lotte happily pulled off her dress and ran to the pond with only her knickers on, nearly losing her balance on the slippery pent. She leapt forward and burst out laughing when Harry caught her in mid-air. He made her sit on top of his shoulders and held both of her hands to keep her from falling over. And there, left alone near the weeping willow, Elsa tried to get rid of her dress but her head ended up stuck. Louis let out a dramatic sigh and walked out, offering his help to the distressed child. He helped undo the three small buttons on her collar and once she was free from her clothes, he hoisted her on his shoulders. Her little hands immediately went for his hair, gripping the strands with an astonishing strength.

“Ouch,” Louis cried out with a broken voice. “Elsa, love, you’re hurting me.”

“Giddy up, horsey!’” she shouted, ignoring his cries and pulling on his hair.

“Do as she say,” Harry chortled, exchanging amused looks with Lotte who was positively thrilled at seeing Louis being taken advantage of.

  The rest of the afternoon was filled with laughter and water splashes. It might have been all thanks to Harry; this was perhaps the first time the girls were actually enjoying their holiday. Lotte quickly learned how to swim and after a few hours, she could successfully cross the length of the pond with little to no help at all.

When an algae plant grazed Elsa’s calf, she yelped in shock, clinging to Louis back, “What was that?”

“What?”

“Something touched my leg!”

“You mean the Kraken tried to get you?!”

“What?” she cried in fear, holding on tighter.

“Ladies!” Louis called out to his sisters, then turned to Harry’s skeptical face, “And gentle _man_ , of course. Open your ears wide, and I’ll tell you all about the most frightening beast known to mankind.”

   Harry slowly made his way through the now lukewarm water, swimming up to him and already half-expecting him to spew his most ridiculous story yet.

“Once upon a time, in the icy Scandinavian sea…”

“What’s Scanvinadian?” Elsa asked in a soft, unnerved voice.

“Hush. Ships that were sent out to sail the sea, had started disappearing more and more often, one failed expedition after the other. The Norwegian people were worried stiff, as friends and family would embark on journeys they weren’t sure to come back from. Until one day, a young man, a survivor, turned up on the shore and lived to tell the people a story that would make their blood curdle…”

“Why do you _speak_ like that,” Harry snorted, feeling Lotte’s thin arms wrap around his neck from behind.

“If your storytelling skills are better than mine, _Kumpel_ , by all means, do tell us what happened to the man.”

“I’ll let you continue.”

“ _Gut._ He said he had seen… Listen closely…” Lotte and Elsa huddled around him, eyes wide open, “A monster. A one-kilometer long monster, with eight slimy tentacles. So big, you could mistake it for an island! He lived at the bottom of the sea and attacked all the ships that came his way. People called him… The Kraken.”

“You’re making it up!” Lotte objected. “Monsters don’t exist. Mutti told me so.”

“Are you sure you want to stay in the water to see if I’m lying or not?”

“The pond’s too small,” she said, and looked at Harry for approval, “Right, Harry?”

“The Kraken had loads of tiny little octopus children, with dozens of sharp teeth. And, for the record, Norway’s awfully close.”

“… Come on, Elsa, we’re leaving.” And with these last words, Lotte stepped out of the water, dragging Elsa behind her as always. They gathered their discarded clothes they’d left in the middle of a mud puddle and picked up the pace, running back to the house to tell Frieda all about the pond monsters.

 

***

  As city kids, swimming was an almost unique occasion. The water was its warmest now, as the sun neared its setting place, far away behind the sumptuous mountains. What motivated Louis and Harry to finally leave the pond was a deep hunger, and the disappearing sun, dyeing the sky a pale pink and casting a golden glow on leaves, water, and skin alike. The whole family was sitting around a rustic table in the old dining room, but the boys were huddled together in front of the fireplace, wrapped in a single huge towel. Droplets of water slid down the rebellious strands of their messy hair, dripping onto their knees drawn up against their chest. Harry closed his eyes, inhaling the heavenly smell of potato dumplings emanating from the dining room. He could hear the girls’ cheerful chitchat, Frieda’s insistent tone when she ordered them to stop playing with their food, and forks and knives clunking against ceramic plates. He opened his eyes again, and turned his head to his neighbour. It might’ve been their proximity – their knees were still touching – or it was the soothing warmth he gave off; he frankly had no idea. All he knew was that he had never felt closer to him. Louis was an unexplainable phenomenon. Harry wished he could just sit and admire what he was like for days on end. Right there, sheltered under their big towel, he felt at peace.

  He dared to nudge him on the shoulder. Look at me, he thought. And Louis did just that. Harry then gave him a lazy smile, staring back and forth at his shining eyes and his mouth. Louis took a quick glance over their shoulders to make sure they were alone. Then he put his arm around Harry’s narrow waist, his hand gripping the side of his hip in a movement that looked almost calculated—and he’d been mastering it for years. His fingers strummed over his ribs, drifting up and down his side; he smiled a little as soon as he felt goosebumps raising underneath his fingertips. Their foreheads met and their noses brushed against each other. Louis looked down, breathless, eyeing his mouth. They were the softest, pinkest lips he ever did see, and the shape of them was ever so lovely. He wished he could tell him that. But then, he thought back to Julius’ words on this sort of behaviour, and a gross feeling of uneasiness began to ferment deep within him. To play it down, he told himself that this was none of anybody’s business. No one else had to know. It was Harry and him since day one, he wouldn’t let anyone meddle between them and tell them how to act.

“Got a secret,” his fingers sank deeper into Harry’s sides.

“What is it?”

“I’m starving.”

“That’s hardly even a secret.”

    Not making any effort whatsoever to hide his disappointment, Harry moved away, staring at the crackling fire in the hearth.

“Why don’t you tell me one of your secrets, Harry.”

  Harry wanted to kiss him, right there and then, “Haven’t got any. I’m an open book.”

“That, you are.”

 

***

  With a candle held right in front of him and with Harry and the girls gathered around in their dark bedroom, Louis thought this was the perfect setting for another horror story. He put on his most somber expression and started telling them about Jack the Ripper, the notorious London serial killer. He accurately described the crude murders of the five London prostitutes.

“What’s a prostitute?” asked Lotte, in a small whisper. Elsa snuggled against her, sucking her thumb in her mouth—Louis knew he mustn’t go too far.

“Well… A pretty woman who does…things.”

“Mutti’s a pretty woman, everyone says so. And she does everything around the house. Is she a prostitute, too?”

“Nein, Lotte!” he snapped, horrified. “I’ll explain it to you when you’re older. Now hush. Annie Chapman was found at No. 29 of Hanbury Street with her throat slit, her head almost completely separated from her body, and her belly wide open. Jack the Ripper had stolen her uterus and half of her bladder. The police’s guess was on the local butcher because a piece of his apron was found on the crime scene, but it was quickly proven that he was innocent. Then, witnesses came up with stories about a man they’d seen wandering around Hanbury Street, late at night. They all said he was dressed in a long dark coat and a high-top hat, like a dark magician. Legend says, he’s still roaming the streets during the night, looking for new victims to disembowel. Once, there was…”

  Frieda knocked softly on the door, interrupting his story, “Girls? It’s time for bed.”

  Half asleep, Elsa rubbed her tired eyes, her head resting on her big sister’s lap. But Lotte wasn’t so lucky; she was wide awake, fear-stricken and ten seconds away from crying.

“Gute Nacht, little sister,” said Louis.

   Lotte stood up, grabbed Elsa’s hand and left the room in a hurry, promptly joining her mother to hug her tightly. And with her arms full, Frieda popped in one last time and looked at Louis and Harry who were still sitting around the candle, “Now off to bed with you two. And don’t forget the candle.”

“Ja, Mutti.”

   She bid them good night, then left the room and swiftly shut the door.

“Shall we summon a demon?” Louis suggested, grazing the candle flame with his finger.

“I’m good.”

“You were up for it yesterday in the train, though.”

“I changed my mind, I was young and innocent, yesterday.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Say. Aren’t you scared of anything?”

  Louis gave it some thought for a short moment, “I reckon nothing really frightens me.”

  He’d said it mindlessly, putting up this brave facade in front of Harry only because he liked seeing the admiration in his eyes. It only made sense that Louis supposedly feared nothing and nobody in this world. He’d been Harry’s protector for quite some time, he felt it was his duty to watch over him, and watch out for him as well. Also, how could he remain the best horror storyteller in the world if he himself was vulnerable?

   There was one thing he was scared of, though.

   Losing Harry.

   But unlike all common fears, this one was far from being irrational.

   He narrowly abstained from voicing his deepest secret and betraying himself, and he softly blew on the candle to extinguish it. A gray, opaque streak of smoke emerged from the burnt out candle-wick. The moon was now their only source of light, beaming up there and through the closed window. The boys climbed into the top bunk, gathering what little remained of the previous day’s candy haul. They leaned back against the cold wall, unwrapping the last couple of sweets and eating them in a medley of crunching and sucking sounds. After a while, Louis came up with what he later remembered as the most embarrassing question in the world, “You ever been hard?”

  There was a long silence; Harry even stopped chewing the overly sugary contents of his mouth.

“In the morning, let’s say… Or… or anytime really. You know, when your…your thing gets hard.”

“Yes,” Harry simply said. “You?”

He shrugged, “It’s happened a couple times. Do you remember when we measured ourselves with rulers, you and me?”

“I do.” Harry was too nervous to dare add anything.

“Right. Well, when you get hard, it grows, like, in size.”

“I guess it does.”

“How about we-”

“No. No, let’s not. We’re not doing this.”

“Doing what?” Louis let out a small laugh, “I’ve not said anything!”

“Can we move on, please?”

“Hang on, now. How do you get rid of it? Do you touch yourself? ‘Cause that’s what I do.”

“I… No.”

“Well then? If you’ve got another miracle solution, you ought to tell me, mate. It’s just us, here. It’s just me.”

 _Exactly,_ Harry thought. _Exactly, you absolute idiot. It’s you. It’s you, it’s always been you._

“I’m tired, actually. I’ll sleep in the bottom bunk.”

“Suit yourself. The food’s staying with me, though.”

   Harry climbed down the ladder and settled in the cold empty mattress he was meant to sleep in all along, “Throw me a pillow?” For a while, it seemed like Louis had decided to ignore him. He couldn’t hear anything up there aside from candy wrappers being squished.

Then he saw a long, slender arm dangling from the top bunk, holding a fluffy white pillow, “Here.”

“Dankeschön.”

  Harry felt his heart racing when Louis’ upper body appeared upside down, long wild hair fanning out all around his head like a lion’s mane, arms swaying at either side of him. They stared at each other, then Louis broke into a smile, “You’re proper weird-looking, upside down.”

“You’re the one who’s upside down,” Harry whispered, resting his head on the pillow.

“Sorry if I embarrassed you. That came off weird on second thought. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“It’s fine.”

“Am I forgiven?”

“Hm…”

“Blood’s getting to my head, Harold, chop chop, please.”

“You’re forgiven, Dummkopf, go to sleep.”

“ _Gute Nacht, dann_ ,” Louis’ hand reached over to him, softly stroking his hair one last time before he went back up.

   Ten, or maybe fifteen minutes had gone by. By then, Harry had mustered every bit of strength and courage he could find within himself and got ready to speak up and tell Louis the truth.

“I just think about you when I touch myself,” was all he said. The deathly silence that followed could’ve meant two things. Either Louis had already fallen asleep, or he’d heard him and had deliberately kept to himself. Harry hoped it was the former, he couldn’t deal with the aftermath of the bomb he’d just dropped. They’d never gone as far as to admitting these things out loud.

  He knew he was in for a turbulent couple of days when he heard Louis coughing.

 

***

   Breakfast next morning was strenuous.

   They were sitting in front of one another at the dining room’s oversized table, stealing glances every once in a while. It was not completely silent – it never was, what with the girls’ endless rambling. Harry’s heart was up in his throat but he forced himself to eat as much as he could for fear of seeming rude. He took his sweet time sorting his food in his plate, and when he looked back up, he realized Louis had been staring at him the entire time. He felt a pounding in his chest and he wished he could’ve taken last night’s words back. But then again, Louis didn’t seem the least bit upset. It was quite the opposite, actually. His features were soft, all aglow in the morning light pouring in from the patio door. He was looking at him with a worryingly serene expression, as though he knew exactly how he felt. Harry stared back down at his plate, teeth sunken deep in his bottom lip. As soon he broke their eye contact, he heard him talking. He’d joined the girls’ lively chat, and he’d started playing with his food to make them laugh.  

“Look, Elsa, I’m a walrus.”

  Harry hadn’t even looked up but he held back his laughter. Frieda promptly restored order at the table, using this bossy tone that did not suit her at all. She normally loved hearing the kids laughing and having a good time, she still did and she would’ve let them continue, had Herr Teller not been sitting at the table and reading his newspaper.

  Harry managed to finish his plate, but Elsa had been watching him for the past few minutes and she’d noticed how he would eat everything except the bacon. She was a big fan of deli meats, and she figured that everyone must love it too. How could they not? It was so delicious. So, she asked the question out loud, “Why don’t you eat the bacon, Harry?”

  Louis looked at him, then he decided to answer for him, “Harry doesn’t eat pork.”

 “Why?”

“He’s not allowed, is all,” he said, firmly, standing up and circling around the table to pick up dirty plates.

“But why?”

  Frieda chimed in, “Elsa, _schatzi_ , why don’t you come and help me with the dishes?”

  Elsa cautiously slid down her chair until her feet touched the floor and followed her mother into the kitchen, tailgated by her big sister who offered her help as well. They left, fluttering like butterflies with their white nightgowns and braided hair. Harry heard Elsa’s last muffled question before they locked themselves in the kitchen, “Mutti, are we really eating little piglets?”

  For the first time, Herr Teller looked up from his newspaper and met Harry’s anxious eyes, only breaking their contact after a few seemingly endless seconds. He was an effortlessly intimidating man; he had eyes like a frozen lake in the winter, and he had a solid square jaw, which jutted out every time he chewed or whenever he was tense.

   He couldn’t exactly put words on it, but Harry was suddenly seized with an indescribable dread. The man hadn’t interacted with him ever since Harry had joined them at the Bahnhof before boarding on the train; now Elsa had unconsciously brought the attention onto him. Over the past few years, when he would stay over at the Teller’s for the afternoon, he would catch Herr Teller mindlessly staring at his necklace, multiple times, and he could tell that _something_ was cooking behind those icy eyes of his. However strained their relationship may be, they’d never actually exchanged any real words. What could they have told each other, at any rate? Harry tended to ignore him, as Herr Teller did.

   It could’ve ended in the worst of fashions, but Louis’ swift return from the kitchen somehow saved the day. He picked up Harry’s empty plate and prodded him between his shoulder blades, quietly indicating him to leave the table and wait for him elsewhere. Harry did just that.

   They didn’t talk much, that morning. They made their way back to the pond; just a soft tread of two pairs of feet through the tall, yellow and brittle grass. The sun was warm on their skin, and they’d wave a hand in front of them once in a while, swatting away flying insects. They stripped down to their underwear, and this time they carefully got into the water instead of cannonballing in as usual. They swam around aimlessly for most of the morning before Louis threw the first splash of water at him, passing it off as an accident. Harry wouldn’t have it; he splashed him right back, and at this moment it seemed like everything had gone back to normal. They started fighting, they wrestled with one arm and sheltered their face with the other, laughing at how ridiculous the whole thing was. Their playful fight came to a brutal stop when Louis accidentally knocked him on the face with his elbow. Harry’s hand instantly flew up to his own mouth as he winced in pain. Louis let out a string of swear words, moving Harry’s hand away to see the extent of the damage he’d done, “Sorry! I’m so sorry, fuck, Harry, let me see.”

   He wasn’t bleeding at least, but Louis kept cursing and that made Harry laugh a little, “I’m fine.”

“Are you, now?” he pressed, overwhelming concern lacing his words.

Harry lowered his head and held onto him, with his arm around him and his face so unbearably close to his neck, “I promise.”

“Should we get out? I’ll fetch you some ice.”

“No. Stings a bit, is all. I’ll be okay,” he titled his chin up to keep his head above the water. Louis was helping him stay afloat, but the fun was definitely over.

“Hold on to me, will you,” he whispered, running a hand through Harry’s damp hair. Their eyes met and Harry found himself entranced by him once again. Something about the sun was making the blue of his eyes look unreal. His wet hair was sticking to his face and water droplets clung to his lashes. It was all a bit much for Harry to bear; it would never go away, he thought, that little flame was here to stay.  He wrapped both of his arms around Louis’ neck, nestling his face in the crease between his neck and shoulder, breathing him in, thinking that this had gone way too far. “Not very convenient, cuddling in the water, now is it,” he felt the vibrations in Louis’ throat when he laughed. “Just smashed your face in and now you’re all over me? You sure you’re all right? Mutti will have me killed if you end up with a bruise or something.”

“I swear to everything, I’m fine.”

“Right. Let’s get out then. I’ll give you a proper hug, if you want.”

  They swam back to the shore, oddly out of breath. Harry’s wet underwear stuck to his thighs and made him feel a thousand times heavier once he was back on the firm ground. They lay down on the fresh grass underneath the weeping willow and watched the clouds slowly go by in peaceful silence, waiting to get dry enough to be able to step back into the house.

“That one sort of looks like you,” Louis pointed at an abnormally shaped cloud. He’d spoken in a low, whispered voice, as though he didn’t want to disturb the calm that had settled between them.

“I think it looks like South America. I’d like to go, one day.”

“You ought to take me with you on your adventures, I’m telling you. I know you’ve got loads of them planned in that little head of yours.”

“I will,” said Harry, turning his head to him. He saw his face through a curtain of green blades of grass. “And we’ll go everywhere, you and me.”

 When Louis smiled, Harry always noticed that some of his teeth were sharper than others. He thought it was lovely, and so he loved making him smile, “Come closer,” said Louis, and Harry complied. His ribs were bruised on the inside from how hard his heart would beat whenever he was with Louis. He snuggled up next to him, resting his weary head against his naked chest, his hand resting flat against his heart. Louis secured him there with his arm around his back, and he sighed.

They would always have these little talks about going around the world and planting a flag on every territory their feet would tread on and swimming in the deepest oceans and walking where no one else had ever set foot. Sometimes they talked about perhaps discovering a new land and baptizing it with an utterly absurd name they’d already forgotten all about. It might have been wishful thinking – it _was_ wishful thinking—but they both agreed that when they’d be all grown up, they’d go on a long trip, just like those explorers from the fifteenth century. _We’ll survive on pretzels and water_ , had said Louis once, when Harry was worried about their diet during the journey.

“If I could fly, I’d go everywhere,” Harry whispered, tilting his head to the side so he could face Louis.

“Where, exactly?”

“Just, out of here. But then I’d come back to you,” he assured him, and propped himself up on his elbow. “Always.”

   There was a moment’s silence, and it felt as though their words were hanging in the air. Harry was leaning over his body, with his elbow planted in the grass, his breath cut short and the little golden star hanging around his neck, grazing Louis’ skin every once in a while. It didn’t take long for Harry to give in. He leaned in and pressed their lips together, in a motion of confidence that was very out of character. It did surprise the both of them, however it was not enough for them to pull apart. It was hardly a kiss; just their lips, silky smooth, pressed against each other. It was almost innocent. Imperceptible, like a hummingbird’s wings in motion. After a short while, Harry lay back down, all red cheeks with his face flaming hot. He barely had the time to overthink what he’d just done.

In turn, Louis leaned in and kissed him right back, sealing their lips in a more powerful, fierce and overall very Louis-like way. He pried Harry’s lips apart with his tongue, aiming to deepen the kiss but not knowing exactly how he was meant to do it. Their teeth touched, he felt Harry chuckling softly against his mouth, and so he tried not to let that happen again. He felt their tongues brush against each other, and he felt Harry’s hand on the back of his neck, holding him close, his fingers spread apart and running up his damp hair.

Overwhelming, was how Louis remembered their first kiss. Mind-numbing, and wet, too. He recalled being completely out of it for the next few hours.

When they pulled apart once and for all, all wild-eyed and burning hot, it felt like the sun was shining a little too brightly. It felt like the birds and the cicadas were singing a little too loudly. Blazing, dazzling colours all around. Everything was too much. There was a good distance between their bodies. They simmered down after a couple of minutes. Their skin was drying up. Louis could’ve fallen asleep, right there. The sunlight was beaming upon the long, dangling branches of the weeping willow, flickering between the elongated leaves, and casting all sorts of shadows on his face when the hot wind blew through them. He squinted his eyes until he could only see the world through two slits.

He wished that time could stop right there and then.

  For some reason, he knew that in a few years, he’d relive that moment through a painful memory that would remind him of simpler times. Times he’d taken for granted.

   The next few days were hazy, for lack of a better word. Nothing felt real, it was like a constant blur, so distant from reality.

Something had changed. Obviously, something had changed. It was as though their usual displays of affection had been amplified tenfold. What started out as innocent and meaningless little gestures now had turned into intentional, fearless endeavours. They’d restrain themselves around the girls and Louis’ parents, and they’d go about their day, inconspicuous, irreproachable.

 However, suffice it to say that the very second they found themselves alone with each other, the tension would become so dense it was almost tangible.

  Those blooming feelings of theirs were still quiet and hesitant at times. Tentative was a good word, too. Tentatively, was how they’d touch each other. Tentatively, was how they’d steal little kisses at night, when they shared the same bed. Louis would hold him close, he’d let his fingers trail down his naked back, would get their legs and their feet all tangled up under the sheets.

Tentatively, was how Harry tried to show him that he wanted more.

Tentatively, was how Louis slipped his hand down Harry’s underwear one quiet morning. The door was closed, the house was asleep and the hills were too. The light was pouring in, glistening in their messy hair, sprawled out on the white pillow case.

“Is this okay?” Louis had asked, ever so softly.

  Harry just squeezed the top of Louis’ arm as a “yes”. They were lying on their side, facing each other and scarcely awake, eyes still puffy with sleep. Louis’ hand was smooth and his movements were slow, yet he could still hear Harry’s laboured breathing. His chest was heaving and his lips were slightly parted; their eyes were locked and they stayed like this until Louis stopped moving his hand. He propped himself up on his elbow, picked up a discarded pillow and rid it of its case, using it as an oversized tissue to wipe his fingers off. He lay back down, running his hand through Harry’s disheveled dark brown hair. He kissed him on the corner of his lips, and let his mouth linger there for a while. He closed his eyes, fully conscious that they’d overstepped a new boundary.

“They can’t find out,” he whispered.

  When he opened his eyes again, Harry was staring at him. He looked lost, he thought, he looked like a child again. His golden necklace was glimmering and reflecting the morning sunlight, resting on his bare chest. Louis reached for it and held the little star between his fingers, “Do you reckon it’s wrong? What we’ve been doing all along?”

“It doesn’t feel wrong,” was Harry’s softly spoken answer.

“They can’t find out,” he pressed.

“They won’t.”


	7. November 1938 - Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht.

 

 

>  Silent Night, Holy Night

 

      Everything changed on the night of November 9th, 1938.

     Downtown Berlin hadn’t exactly fallen asleep yet. It was basking in that short stretch between the daytime hectic activities and the dusky lull of the night. It was a little foggy, too, for some auspicious reason. The streets would’ve been dark had it not been for the lampposts and the very few shops that kept their lights on. Behind the windows, you could make out a shadow or two, hustling about and getting the place ready for closing. Every once in a while, a car would quietly drive by, or men in green-and-grey uniforms would zoom by on a bicycle.

  Harry shamelessly watched them go, staring at every single one of them until they disappeared from his field of vision. He propped himself up to sit on top of the short brick wall that lined the main street and repositioned the tweed cap on his head, “Hand me one, Frank.” He reached out for Frank’s pack of Italian cigars. “I’d like to try.”

 Frank shrugged and ripped the package open, placing the perfectly rolled Toscano into Harry’s waiting hand, “Mind your lungs, they’re quite strong, they are.”

“Have you tried them, then?”

“I’ve seen my uncle smoking them.”

  Harry nodded once and brought it to his lips, “Look,” he pointed toward the end of the street, “Louis’ back.”

“Is he being chased?” Frank started laughing and climbed up the tiny wall to sit down next to Harry. Louis was running indeed, clutching his leather satchel to his chest and stealing glances behind himself every few seconds.

    He came to a halt in front of the two boys, panting and out of breath, some of his hair sticking to his forehead. He placed a hand on his hip and took a quick look around to make sure their surroundings were safe. “I’ve got it,” he finally said. “Had to run all the way from bloody Moltzstrasse but I’ve got it. Here.” He handed Harry a shiny silvery zippo lighter with a bald eagle carved on it.

“And why were you running?” Harry asked, smiling in anticipation.

“’Cause I stole it!” He said, bright blue eyes sparkling under the street light. “Had to, didn’t I? I’m not rolling in it. Wish I was, though. A man was running after me, he wouldn’t give up.”

“You should’ve told me. I’d have given you a couple marks, you could’ve gotten the cheapest one.”

 Louis took his time to regain his breath. He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back in an unintentionally stylish quiff. “Only the best for you.”

 Harry held back his laughter, mouthed the word  _cheesy,_  and said, “Take it back to the shop, it’s not right.”

“What, now?!”

“…No. When I’m done using it.”

  Harry flicked the lighter open and brought it up to the dangling cigar in the corner of his mouth. He struggled with it for a few seconds, and heard Frank laughing at him, “Can’t seem to light it up. Wouldn’t mind a hand, Lou.”

    Louis took a step forward. He grabbed the lighter, played with the tiny wheel until the sparks burst into a bright orange flame. He lifted it up to the cigar and let it ignite the tip, sheltering it from the wind with his hand. He watched in awe as Harry inhaled the smoke.

    The Toscano cigars had been brought by Frank – a so-called gift from his uncle, an assertive communist who had been taken into questioning a week ago, and was not heard from ever since. Louis knew fully well that Frank had stolen the cigars from him. No one in their right mind offers such a gift to a reckless fourteen-year-old boy like Frank Andelman. Though, Harry had thrown himself head first into this new experience. As a matter of fact, it turned out that it was not the first time he had smoked. The way he held the cigar between two fingers in a snobbish bourgeois fashion, and the ease with which he inhaled, exhaled and described the sensation were proof enough. He blew softly through his lips, exhaling the smoke in small intermittent puffs with his chin tilted back. There were faint gray clouds rising up high and then vanishing into the ink-black sky.

“Show off.” Louis chuckled, then coughed, wondering why his voice had sounded unusually high-pitched.

“Have a go?” Harry suggested enthusiastically.

“No ... I’ve got asthma, remember?”

   Of course, he did remember. Harry had never been as frightened as the night Louis woke up unable to breathe, coughing and sputtering and trying to get some air into his windpipe. He had always had troubles with his lungs; he would be out of breath in a very short time and it kept getting worse and worse. His attacks had started a little over a year ago, and the only thing his father had done was look at him with fleeting concern, and say “That’s not good,” as though as he had something in mind for Louis and the attacks were shattering his plans.

 “Yes, I’m sorry.”

   Louis leaned against the little brick wall, bending his leg to rest his foot against it. Out the corner of his eye, he studied Harry’s casual posture and tried to avoid openly staring at him. On his side, Harry wasn’t paying him any attention. Instead, he was leaning toward Frank with a flicker of eagerness in the green of his eyes. “Is your uncle a real  _Kommunist_? Or has he been falsely accused? They seem to do that a lot.”

  Frank was rolling his own cigar between his fidgety fingers. “Not sure. I just know he had some sort of a talent for getting in trouble. He had these twisted opinions about everything, I suppose that’s what got him arrested.”

“What do you call a twisted opinion? Was he a Marxist?” Harry pressed. “Has he told you about Bakunin?”

“I don’t know.” Frank shifted uncomfortably. “Why all the questions? Are you one of them?”

“One of what?”

“Are you a Kommunist, too?”

    Harry sneered, side-eyeing Louis who was already smiling. “ _Na klar, Kamerad_  – Of course, I am! Didn’t you know?”

  Frank frowned in confusion. “Wait, is he serious?”

“No, Frank, come on.” Louis said in between fits of laughter.

  “You should know that as a filthy enemy of the State, my only goal is to topple the bourgeoisie, dear Frank. The proletariat will rule. I’ve said it! Come arrest me, everyone!”

“Right, Harry, settle down.” Louis touched his knee, holding back his laugh. “They might believe you.” He'd said it lightheartedly, but he knew that Harry’s carelessness and absolute contempt for the authorities would cost him one day.

   Harry was certainly aware of the danger lurking around every corner, but he was fourteen, now. He wasn’t a child anymore. And he was currently experiencing this essential need to live on the edge every once in a while. He didn’t care if his necklace wasn’t always perfectly hidden underneath his shirt, in fact he’d flash it on purpose, taunting anyone who gave him dirty looks, almost as if he was telling them:  _Is this what you’re looking for?_

  He was fourteen, and he was no longer the kid that the world had successfully managed to crush down under its foot. Some would say that it was  _madness_. Others, just pure, childish ignorance.

  Nevertheless, Harry had never felt as alive as when he deliberately broke the laws. And when Louis strung along on these little adventures, he felt invincible. He had this fantasy, an untameable craving for freedom. Sometimes he felt like no one could hold him back.

  Louis remembered that short,  _short_  period of Harry’s life as maybe the happiest he’d ever been. It came to a brutal stop that very evening.

 “So,” Frank chimed in, rhythmically tapping his fingers against the Toscano pack, “Do tell us, Harry.... How're things with you and… what’s her name… Eden?”

   Harry’s smile faltered a little and he risked taking a glimpse at Louis who was still leaning against the wall with his head bowed and his arms crossed.

“Things are fine.”

“Is it true that you've kissed?”

Harry choked on the smoke, “No! Where'd you get that from? We’re just friends. We’ve not…”

“Right.” Louis cut him off. “Friends.”

“ _Was ist los?”_  Harry frowned, nudging him with his foot.  

   Louis looked up, swiping his fringe to the side. “Nothing’s going on. I just meant that Eden thinks of you as more than a friend.”

 “Well I don’t, so...”

“She sounds lovely.” said Frank. “I’ve never had a girlfriend.” He thought out loud, staring up at the blurry moon behind the clouds.

“You run too fast, they can’t keep up with you.” Harry said and Frank let out a small breath of laughter. “Besides, even if I wanted to,” he started saying, hoping that Louis would understand what he was trying to imply, “I couldn’t get with Eden. Herr Maisel is her uncle, he’ll hate me for it.”

 “You’re a good boy, Harry.” said Louis, with a faint smile. “If anything, he should be glad his little niece’s seeing you and not some scamp on the streets.”

“We  _are_  scamps on the streets, though, aren’t we?” he asked them, giggling along with Frank. “And she’s not  _seeing me_. Cheer up, ja?”

   Never mind the mood, Louis would always get worryingly quiet whenever Eden Maisel was merely mentioned. She and Harry had met at Herr Maisel’s house, where Harry would often go and spend some time working on his model airplane blueprints. The man would serve him plain biscuits and a strong black coffee that Harry found utterly sickening at first but grew to appreciate with time. They would spend entire afternoons studying different aircraft that were used in the Great War, or he’d tell Harry all about his early years as a pilot in the Fliegertruppe and how he had this wild dream of flying over Antarctica. He said he’d enlist in the air force in a heartbeat if ever there was another war, just to get the feeling of flying again.  _I’ll be happy to die in the sky, if that’s what’s destined for me_ , is what he’d told Harry, once.

   Eden Maisel was thirteen, she lived in the old Spandau borough, and she would visit her uncle once a week. She was gentle and reserved, and she liked watching Harry when he was concentrated on his work.  _Leise wie eine Maus_  – Quiet like a mouse, is how Herr Maisel described her. Harry grew to like her company, and sometimes he would try to get her involved. She warmed up to him instantly and Harry could tell, after a month or two, that she’d grown incredibly fond of him. How couldn’t she, after all?

It put him in the stickiest of situations.

And that should’ve been the main concern in his life. A plain old love triangle. But Harry had been handed a whole different set of cards at birth.

    There was a loud noise across the street. The three boys’ heads snapped up in surprise – they’d been so caught up in their own little world that they hadn’t noticed the ambush near the dim-lit storefronts. Somebody had just thrown a rock at a window and it came shattering down under the street lights. From then on, it became a glorious free-for-all. More windows were broken and helpless screams erupted from inside the shops. Frank shoved the Toscano cigars in his pocket, and Harry’s gaping mouth let go of his own.

  The SS were breaking through the storefronts of Jewish-owned shops in what seemed like a delightful task they’d been assigned last minute. Some of them would break in to smash down everything they could reach, ransacking the racks and filling their own pockets. Others tracked down the mortified owners. An old shopkeeper was pulled out the shop by the sleeve of his black coat. A man gave him a rough push until his head hit the ground in a shocking thud. The noise of breaking glass and shattering windows was deafening. A woman was being dragged out of a little store by her hair tightly clutched in a faceless man’s rough hand. Her shrill cries echoed around the misty street as she begged and pleaded the man to let go of her.

A great night in prospect. And how jolly beautiful were these mountains of glass on the sidewalks?

  This so-called bravery that Harry had so proudly displayed a little earlier cracked and fell apart, leaving him stiff and white in the face, eyes wide open. Had Louis not caught him by his hand, he would’ve never been able to move. Louis dragged him along in a wild footrace, attempting –and failing—to keep up with Frank’s insane speed. They ran and crossed dozens of little streets, ears ringing with the deafening noise of crumbling glass. Even in the midst of all the dizziness, Harry managed to catch a glimpse at an awfully familiar shop sign. The originally bright coloured letters had faded to a dusty red, but he would’ve recognized the place among a thousand others. It was Herr Maisel’s toy store, and the SS were getting ready to destroy the windows.

“His shop!” Harry cried out, heartbroken.

Louis held his hand tighter and pulled him along. “Keep running!”

    Something was burning in the distance; an acrid and opaque smoke was glooming in the sky, not unlike the night of the book-burning, in the middle of the Opernplatz.

   Frank took a sharp turn to the right and ran up the stairs leading to his house. Louis’ first thought was that they should follow him inside, but then he remembered that Harry’s parents would probably be sick with worry, so he decided against it and kept running straight ahead even though his breath was drawing short. His fingers tightened around Harry’s wrist and he quickly looked over his shoulder to make sure he was all right.

   His necklace was swaying about with his movements, reflecting the bright orange light from the lampposts.

   Out of breath, but still furious, Louis shouted at him. “Take it off,  _verdammt noch mal_ , Harry! Get rid of it, you’ll get yourself killed!”

    Harry did nothing of it, offended by his words.

   They were quickly spotted in the middle of the chaos, they were told not to move, and a man shouted at them, but they never stopped. 

  Louis’ throat was growing drier and tighter by the second and he knew he wouldn’t last long. He turned abruptly on a well-known street, pulling Harry with him. He felt it was the best decision to make, at the moment. He pushed the church’s large wooden doors open and rushed inside with Harry, then he turned around and shut the gigantic panels behind them. The echo lasted about a minute, which was way less time than they needed to catch their breath. Louis felt as though he was being smothered to death, bending over the pew with his hands firmly gripping the wood.  His lungs felt compact and empty all at once. Harry was still standing by the doors, motionless, his arms wrapped around himself. Something about being held made him feel infinitely more secure.

  When Louis’ near attack dissipated after a few minutes, he finally raised his head and looked around, taking in the sight of the colourful mosaics on the colossal stained-glass windows. The inside of the church in the nighttime was magnificent.

   Harry was fascinated, to say the least, eyes gawking at the walls and the ceiling, captivated by its greatness, its beauty – its holiness. He’d certainly never set foot in such a place.

  Louis sat down on a pew and with a small head gesture, he urged Harry to sit at his side. Harry complied, and they remained quiet for a long time before Louis spoke up. “Weird, isn’t it? Out of all places…”

“I like it here. It’s gorgeous.” He simply said, fixated on the statue of the Christ, far ahead of them. He had that distressed, tearful look in his eyes. Remarkable, for someone with a face made out of stone.

  Louis drew his knees up to his chest, resting his feet on the edge of the wooden bench. He’d never looked so small. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“What I said about your necklace. I was just scared, I suppose.”

“I know. It’s all right.” He whispered, and stretched out his hand to push a strand of feathery hair away from Louis’ forehead – the mere gesture cut off his breath. “About earlier, though… What’s the matter?”

    Harry was still looking at him, waiting for an answer. And right there, under the moonlight, he’d never looked so lovely. Louis always thought he had the most beautiful eyes in the world.  _The world!_ The whole of it. They were a dazzling green, sprinkled with gold, and if he got close enough, which he always did, he could see regular patterns in the swirls of his irises. Later, when Harry vanished out of his life like a dying candle, it remained the most striking detail about him, it stuck in his mind for years – his eyes. “Is this about Eden? About what Frank said?”

“…No.” He replied in a low tone, too hesitant to be sincere. Harry knew him by heart.

“You’re my only one. I hope you know that.”

  It was very unlike Louis to blush so violently, but he did, right there. He tried not let it show, but his lips stretched in a betraying little smirk. “Am I, now?”

“You should know it by now.”

   Louis was about to reply, but then they heard voices through the tall doors. Not screams, only voices arguing. Male voices.

  As a new idea popped into his mind, Louis took Harry’s hand and led him quickly to the candle stand. They knelt down quietly, and Louis grabbed hold of a few discarded matches on the floor. He set alight two candles and whispered. “Close your eyes. Not a word.”

   As the door opened with a loud creak, Louis closed his eyes and brought his hands together, prompting Harry to do the same.

   There were heavy steps, likely caused by a pair of boots in the alley behind them. The door shut by itself and the sudden noise echoed around and bounced off the walls for a short while. Should anything go wrong, this was where they’d most likely both meet their fate. Harry shut his eyes tighter and prayed that death wouldn’t hurt a lot. 

   The man stopped by Harry’s side, then knelt down close to him. Louis only opened one eye to take a quick look.

   He was one of them. Men in green-and-grey uniforms. Men like his father.

   Whenever Louis recalled this particular moment, he always remembered the feeling as being locked in a cage next to a sleeping lion.

   His clothes appeared brown under the light of the candle he so warily kindled. His fine and perfectly carved features were highlighted by the dancing flame and his meticulously styled hair reflected the light’s golden glow. He smiled as soon as he spotted Louis’ anxious eyes and spoke in a gentle voice that could’ve made anyone shiver. “Meine Mutter died yesterday morning.”

   Louis only nodded, and murmured “ _Gott hab sie selig_ ” for good measure, before returning to his own prayer.

   The whole scene came close to bursting with irony. Three people, praying over three candles for three different reasons – the best of them had come here to put his Oh so good Christian soul to effective use.

   Harry's necklace hung visibly on his neck, but thankfully the man had yet to notice it. Louis slowly reached over to him and gently tucked the star underneath Harry's shirt, effectively hiding it from sight. The man finished collecting himself a few minutes later, stood up and dusted off his knees, “Not that I don’t enjoy your company, but the party’s still going strong, out there. One day your turn will come, you’ll be one of us,” he said, ruffling both Louis and Harry’s hair – his hand lingered for a while longer on Harry’s head. “ _Gute Nacht_.”

   Harry felt a burning urge to shave all of his hair off, and his throat felt impossibly tight.

   After an exhausting sprint down Rockenfeld Strasse, the boys reached their respective buildings and went their own way. Harry opened the door on the ground floor. He climbed the stairs as fast as he could, knocked at his door and bent forward, hands pressed on his knees and trying to catch his breath. He knocked again when no one seemed to answer, “Open up!” he half-whispered, half-yelled, “Mama, it’s me, open up, please!”

  He heard heavy footsteps approaching the door from inside. He took a few steps back and instantly knew he was in for one hell of a lecture. Karla opened the door, pulled him in and slammed it shut, nervously fiddling with the new bolt they’d installed on the door.

“I’m sorry.” he managed to say, knowing fully well that it was far from being enough.

“Are you  _out of your mind_?!” Karla turned around to face him. He noticed that her eyes were wet and that her hands were shaking. She lashed out on him, all right. Ten minutes had gone by and she was still yelling at him, telling him off for staying outside that late, given the horrors that were taking place right as they were speaking. The worst thing is that Karla had never so much as raised her voice at him, even when he would do things that would drive any average parent insane. Now she was screaming and her cheeks were tinted red as she frantically waved her hand to assert her words. Harry didn’t flinch. He did try to bring up Louis, he figured that he wouldn’t mind bearing the blame a little – after all, they were partners in crime. But Karla wouldn’t have it. “Louis? Louis’ life’s never been at stake! Have you  _any_  idea what could’ve happened to you?!”

  Harry kept his head down as Karla began listing victims – mostly close relatives – that had disappeared or been arrested in the past months. 

“Sorry, Mama,” he said in a dull voice, as he realized she would never stop. “It won’t happen again. I’ll never come out of my room, now, is that what you want for me?”

 "You left without telling me where you were going! What do you think this is, a game?! People are getting killed!"

"I know that."

    Karla grabbed his necklace by its pendant and snatched it away, breaking the chain.

  “I never want to see this hanging round your neck ever again. At least, not in the street, understood?”

  He glared at her, with a very unfamiliar harshness in his eyes. He was about to reply that the necklace was the only tangible memory he had of his mother and that Karla had no right to take it away from him – let alone bloody breaking it. He refrained from making any further comment when she started crying.  He managed to slip away as soon as Ariel stepped in. Harry watched them from the hallway; Ariel was holding her, trying to put her mind to rest.  _He’s here, he’s all right, it’s all that matters_.

   Harry had the hardest time falling asleep that night. A distant uproar pierced the silence of the night. Every few minutes, there would be a far-off, haunting noise of breaking glass and screams. He wondered just how long they would keep this going, and also why on earth they were doing it. Tonight’s images flashed in his mind every time he tried to close his eyes. They were playing in a loop, tormenting him like a bad movie. He saw the woman who’d been dragged on the ground, the old man who’d been thrown on the muddy cobbled road, he saw mountains of glass, and the man in a green-and-grey uniform.

  He saw Louis, and he remembered that dreadful expression on his face. If fear itself were to be personified, it would look like Louis on the night of November 9th, 1938.

 

***

  Voices in the kitchen pulled him out of his very light sleep, the next morning. He slipped out of bed, put on a warmer jumper and his bare feet trampled the squeaky floorboards on his way to his bedroom window. He opened one of the shutters to peek at the street; nothing. At first sight.

  When he got to the kitchen, he was greeted by a very short, thin-legged woman who had a scarf wrapped around her head. She hadn’t even taken her tweed coat off, so he figured she mustn’t have been here long. She smiled as soon as she spotted him and pulled him into a tight hug, “My, how you’ve grown!”

  When they pulled apart, he recognized her. It was Frau Weitzman, Ariel’s mother. He remembered her from the orphanage when she used to take care of the babies. As a child, she was the only woman he ever trusted in there. She had made the trip with him all the way from Stuttgart, she had read him bedtime stories and she’d kept him warm on the night train. Also, she used to slip him extra cookies after supper. He knew she was a very busy woman, and he’d only seen her maybe three times since he was adopted by the Steckelbergs.

“How handsome you are,” she smiled and wrapped her frail fingers around his forearms. “You’ll outgrow all of us, one day! God bless you.”

  Harry’s lips curled into a shy grin as he peeked behind the woman to spot Ariel and Karla, sitting around the kitchen table. He thought the scene looked like a dull, monochrome photograph. They looked at him with sorrowful eyes; Ariel was the only one who mustered the tiniest smile for him, “Good morning, you.”

“Sit down,” Karla softly said as she pulled a chair for him. “You remember Frau Weitzman?”

  He quietly sat down next to Karla, “Yes.”

“I still can’t believe how much he’s changed,” the old woman said, shaking her head. “How are you,  _meine Liebe_?”

“I’m good, thank you.”

“How’s he doing in school?”

“Very well,” Ariel proudly replied. “Very talented young man, no doubt. His professor’s always impressed. Says we’ve got a little prodigy!”

  Harry scratched the back of his neck and felt Karla’s hand on his shoulder. He instantly felt better when he saw that familiar fondness in her eyes. “About Professor Wechsler,” Harry mentioned, “When’s he coming? He’s got to help me with my…”

“Professor Wechsler…” Ariel started saying, then stopped and glanced over to Karla. She silently nodded, and he continued, “He’s been arrested yesterday.”

“Arrested?” he scowled. “What for?”

“Do they need a reason, nowadays?”

  Frau Weitzman intervened, heartache lacing her words, “Last night was a right mess, it was. They’ve burnt down all the synagogues in Germany. Destroyed the Jewish-owned shops. Vandalized everything. They’ve set fire to the orphanage in Pankow. Chased the children out, they did. I had to take some of them in, can you imagine? Remember little Dieter, Harry?” he nodded, picturing the quiet toddler with the round glasses at the orphanage, “He lives with me now. I’ve barely got enough room for a proper dinner table, but what can we do? And the babies, God. How heartless, how wretched you have to be… Beats me.”

  Harry couldn’t bear to hear about last night’s events anymore. As he was about to leave the table, Karla stopped him, and put something in his hand. When he looked into the palm of his hand, he saw the golden necklace.

“I got it fixed, earlier this morning. See? Same chain. I’m sorry about last night.”

“It’s all good. Dankeschön,” with a surge of relief, he leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, and disappeared into the bathroom for a quick shower. He got dressed and started heading for the door, but he slowed down when he heard quiet whispers from the kitchen, and small sobs that could’ve only come from Karla. He didn’t hear everything, but he heard enough to understand the painful situation that Karla and Ariel were finding themselves in. Ariel’s mother was advising them to get a divorce on paper.  _Only on paper, sweetheart,_  she insisted.  _It won’t mean anything_. She told Karla that she was just like a daughter to her, and that it was in her best interest to comply. With signed divorce papers, no one could touch her, no one could tell her anything, no one could hurt her. It was simple: Ariel was Jewish, Karla wasn’t. Marriage put them both in the same boat.

 _When all this is over,_  Frau Weitzman said,  _they’ll pay. All of them._

 

***

  Louis had caught a bad cold and Frieda had insisted he stay home, that same morning. The girls were at school, and Herr Teller was nowhere to be seen. Louis was left alone with her and the newborn twins. Two beautiful, healthy blonde baby girls: Luzi and Matilda.

 _Oh come on_ , Louis had sighed dramatically the day Frieda had brought the twins home.  _Two girls! You lot are out to get me, aren’t you?_

  Harry had saved the day as soon as he stepped into Louis’ tiny bedroom with a smug look on his face, his hand shoved into his pocket and his wet hair all pushed back. Louis greeted him with a crushing hug that nearly made them both lose their balance. They always hugged like there was no tomorrow, with their arms wrapped impossibly tight around one another and their chests flush against each other. Louis wished he wasn’t so completely engrossed in his smell – a touch of that lemon verbena soap from the market, woven with something that was so unequivocally  _Harry_  and that he could not explain, for the life of him. Harry took a few cautious steps, pushing him toward the end of his bed. Louis inevitably fell backwards, carrying Harry with him on his way down. They giggled against each other’s necks, breath softly fanning on their skin. When Louis finally released him, Harry lazily dropped onto his side and leaned in for a kiss, only to be stopped halfway through, “I'm sick. Caught a cold yesterday.”

  Harry frowned and still managed to give him a quick peck on the lips, “We’ll be sick together then.”

“Come here,” Louis whispered, pulling him closer. Harry noted the oddly grave look on his face. A look that, he will learn, would become an integral part of him. That little scowl, those furrowed eyebrows, and those lips drawn in a tight line – a perpetual state of disarray, a far cry from the chubby-cheeked, blinding smile he’d grown so fond of, as a child. “You made it home all right?” he asked in a whispered tone, idly squeezing at his shoulder.

“Ja.”

“What did Karla say?”

“Told me off. She was proper pissed.”

“I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have gone out, that night, it was stupid.”        

  Harry shook his head and brought a hand up to Louis’ hair, softly threading his fingers through his fringe and occasionally brushing against his burning hot forehead. “We couldn’t’ve known, could we… Besides, it’s all good, now. I’m safe.”

   Louis’ frown didn’t even falter. He was so far from the truth, it was actually astounding. “I’ve read the news. Have you looked at the papers, this morning?”

  Louis’ arm reached around Harry’s body and he grabbed the newspaper. The title in the front page appeared to be screaming the brand-new trendy word of the day: KRISTALLNACHT.

“Crystal night. How poetic,” Harry said, eyes gliding over the caption underneath a picture of a shop that looked like it’d been devastated by a tornado. Following the assassination of his first secretary by a Polish Jew, Hitler, in an outburst of anger, had ordered this public mass destruction. Everything  had been organized by his right arm and minister of propaganda Joseph Goebbels, and it'd all been committed by the SA and SS. Two hundred synagogues had been burned, and if the firemen had intervened it was only to prevent the fires from spreading to the neighbouring buildings. A hundred Jews had been  killed. The night had been nothing but violence and public humiliation all over the country. Several thousand shops had been destroyed, ransacked, and  pillaged. 

“It’s all gone to shit, if I’m honest,” Louis said, “I’m worried about you.”

   There was a knock at the door. As if reflexively, they both sat right up and left a safe distance between themselves as soon as Louis’ bedroom’s door opened. Frieda walked in, absently studying them. She was there, all right, but it looked like her mind was entirely elsewhere. And it had been like this for almost a year, now, as though everything was leaving her jaded and indifferent. Louis often tried to work her out because he could tell something was off, but she rebuked his every last attempt of communication.

“Everything all right, Harry, love? Your family, are they safe?” He nodded, and she sighed. “That’s good news. Well, listen, you two… I’ve got errands to run. Would it bother you terribly to look after the babies? They’re sleeping but, just check on them once in a while?”

“I’ve got it,” said Louis.

“If one of them wakes up, you know what to do, don’t you?”

“Mh.”

“All right, then. I shouldn’t be long. An hour or so, I should imagine. And get started on your homework.” She pointed at his notebooks scattered around the tiny bed.

“Ja, Kommandant.”

“Don’t do that, Lou,” she frowned. “It's in very poor taste.”

  And with that, she left and closed the door, and Harry fell right back into Louis’ arms, in his rightful place.

“Will you help me with my math homework?” Louis asked, pressing his lips to his temple. “Considering you've turned into Albert Einstein and all.”

“Einstein’s got nothing on me.”

“Okay, big head. Is that a yes?”

“Yes. Hand it over. And watch me.”

   And there, all snuggled up and cozy in Louis’ arms, he went through every single problem, calmly explaining his steps and wording it out for him. He asked him questions between each step to make sure he was following and understanding everything, and handed him the blue fountain pen so he could do the last exercise all by himself. “You’re a brilliant teacher, Harry. And you smell really good.”

  Harry attacked him with just about a thousand little butterfly kisses all over his face, and Louis erupted in a fit of giggles. “Will you give it a rest,” he covered his own neck protectively with his hands. “I’m trying to get things done, here.”

“I like kissing you.” He pouted, pulling him in for a hug and burying his cold hands under Louis’ jumper to warm them up.

“Yeah, I figured.”

  They did like to kiss. Kissing was their favourite thing to do. That, and cuddling and getting each other off whenever they could. Their countless attempts at turning a blind eye to whatever this could mean all failed miserably, but putting words on it and voicing their thoughts about their own feelings were out of the question. They quite liked dancing around the obvious, and they got such a thrill out of keeping it all behind closed doors. For now.

  When infant cries started resonating around the flat, Louis pounced out of the room to collect the upset twin and get her to stop crying before she wakes up the other one. Harry just lay there in bed, tempted to finish Louis’ homework on his own while waiting for him to get back. He could hear him pacing around on the creaky floor and speaking in a low, soothing voice, hoping it would have the same magical effect as Frieda’s. After a while, he returned to his own bedroom, entirely defeated. He was still cradling her in his arms and she was crying louder than ever, all red in the face, fussing and kicking. “Could you…” he started saying. “Nevermind. You shouldn’t have to do this.”

“No, let me try.” He rolled out of bed, holding out his arms to him. Louis cautiously passed her on to him and made sure that her head was being supported. “Which one is she?”

“Look at the bracelet.” Louis pointed to the shiny thin bracelet around her chunky wrist.

“Matilda,” Harry whispered with a little smile, his finger tracing over the golden  _ **M**_. “How beautiful you are, Matilda… Don’t cry.”

  He held her against his chest in an upright position, with his hand soothing her back, and started moving about in the room. He shut the lights off and sang for her in a mellow, deep voice. Louis dropped down on the edge of his bed and just watched him with a heavy heart. It was a lullaby, whose words he couldn't quite grasp -- in fact, he couldn't grasp them at all. It wasn't German. It was the first time he’d ever heard him utter a word in another language. His voice was out of this world and the song had such a sad intonation to it, it could’ve brought him to tears if he hadn’t gritted his teeth and convinced himself that this wasn't about him. Slowly but surely, Matilda was starting to simmer down. She’d cry for a few seconds, then go silent for a full minute, and cry again, more timidly, as if testing the waters. Harry prudently lay back down on the bed and let her rest on his chest with her head against his heart. He kept singing, lower this time, and the vibrations she could feel against her ear did wonders to help pacify her cries. Eventually she stopped altogether. She wasn’t quite asleep yet: her dark blue eyes were still wide open, staring at everything in the dim-lit room.

    When she fell asleep at last, Louis shuffled closer and lay on his side, eyes focused on the both of them and feeling exceedingly relaxed.

“What was that?” He whispered, placing his hand over Harry’s, on Matilda’s back.

“My mum used to sing that song for me when I was little,” he said. “Forgot all about the lyrics when she died. Then I heard it again at the orphanage. The women used to sing it for the babies at night. Always that same song, and it worked, every time.”

“What does it say?”

“‘S just kid stuff, to get them to calm down. It basically just says, go to sleep, my darling child… With your wide black eyes, you’re the jewel of my life… Stop your crying, and look at the world, how beautiful it is…”

“I keep forgetting how horrible it must’ve been for you,” Louis said, and paused when he felt a lump in his throat. “Where’s your necklace?”

“Left it at home.”

“I’m sorry it has to be like this.”

“Don’t be.”

   Louis pondered their condition, and came to a poignant conclusion. “It's not a beautiful world at all, out there.”

    When Frieda came back, she found all three of them, sound asleep in Louis’ dark room. She felt a pinch in her heart, and an awful bitter taste of guilt in her mouth. That guilty feeling had started to rule her world for quite some time now.

   She stepped into the room as quietly as possible, and carefully lifted up the sleeping child to hold her in her arms. Harry opened his eyes in confusion.

“Sorry to wake you,” Frieda whispered. “Thanks for looking after her, that’s awfully nice of you.”

  He kept quiet.

“Saw your mother outside. She’s getting worried.”

“I’ll go, then.”

“ _Danke,_ again.” She smiled when he left the room.

  Louis slowly stirred awake, squinting at her. “Where’s he gone off to? Mutti, you let him leave by himself?”

“Shh.” She placed a hand against his burning forehead. “Get some rest. He’ll be all right. He’s a big boy, now.”


	8. September 1939 - Mayday.

  The following year, in September, Harry finished assembling his very own remote-controlled airplane, and it was ready for its first take-off. It would be grand, he thought. In fact, he had so much confidence in his own work that he believed he didn’t even need to try it inside the house first. One sunny morning, he pulled a wooden chair from the kitchen and brought it under the large, wide opened window. He knelt on it, with his remote in his hand and the airplane balanced on the window sill. His parents were sitting at the table around their unfinished breakfast. Ariel had his forehead pressed against his hand, fingers absently scratching his head, and Karla was anxiously playing with the wireless radio’s volume button. They tried to keep it down; anyone who was caught listening to the BBC would be in for a treat, courtesy of the Gestapo. Ariel and Karla knew they couldn’t possibly trust the German Gleiwitz station after the stunt that Himmler had pulled to lead the world into believing that Poland had attacked the country _first_.

_“This is London. You will now hear a statement by the Prime Minister... I am speaking to you, from the cabinet room in 10, Downing Street. This morning, the British ambassador in Berlin handed the German government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by eleven o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received. And that consequently, this country is at war with Germany.”_

    Harry visualized a safe trajectory for his plane: from the window, all the way up to the roof of the building at the other side of the street. He was positive that he had built it to be sufficiently powerful to reach such a height and distance.

_“You can imagine what a bitter blow it is to me, that all my long struggle to win peace has failed. Yet I cannot believe there is anything more or different that I could’ve done and that would’ve been more successful. Up until the very end, it would’ve been quite possible to arrange a peaceful settlement between Germany and Poland. But Hitler wouldn’t have it. He had evidently made up his mind to attack Poland whatever happened. We and France are today, in fulfillment of our obligations, going to the aid of Poland who is so bravely resisting this brutal attack upon their people.”_

   He frowned, checked the condition of the propellers one last time and pressed two buttons on the remote.

_“We have a clear conscience. We have done all that any country could do to establish peace.”_

The plane took off and his heart fluttered. The propellers were turning in a wonderfully smooth way. It was finally, _finally_ flying over the crowded street. It flew over couples whose farewells sounded bitterly final, it flew over the neighbourhood children who were racing down the street on their bicycles, shouting _“Death to the English!”_ and it flew over hats, berets, tweed caps and military helmets.

_“May God bless you all. And may He defend the right, for it is evil things we should be fighting against. Brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution. And against them I am certain, the right will prevail.”_

   The airplane began to tumble and lose altitude. A propeller stopped working. It leaned violently to the left and Harry jabbed his thumb on a button in hopes of saving the aircraft. It came crashing down on the paved road with a sickening noise. He leaned over the windowsill, and looked down upon a crowd that knew nothing of what lay ahead.

 

***

  The next morning, Louis received a paper package tied up with strings. It was patiently waiting for him on the table, untouched and threatening. He’d just woken up and his father had told him that a brilliant gift had come for him. It was a brown shirt. But not just any brown shirt. It had a Nazi flag armband sewn on the upper arm of the sleeve.

  Of course, Herr Teller was the last person who would clash with the social and political upheaval caused by the announcements on the wireless. A few days earlier, a man had stepped into their apartment with a list in his hand and a swastika at the top of his sleeve. He had evidently come for Louis, serious and grim, like a bad omen.

  Louis had spent most of his afternoon in a room, alone with the stone-like man. He had come to see if Louis was fit to integrate one of the most prestigious Hitler Youth academies ever created.

Only prodigies, excellent athletes in search of scholarships, and sons of high-ranking Schutzstaffel members had such an opportunity. Louis had undergone a battery of tests, complete with physical measurements of his naked body, a scrupulous comparison with the perfect Aryan model (all the details mattered: from the exact colour of his hair to the shade of blue in his eyes, down to the bone structure of his face and the width of his shoulders) and a medical examination which he nearly failed due to his asthma. When he finally stepped out into the living room, where the man had taken upon himself to teach Lotte and Elsa how to do a perfect Hitler salute with their right arm raised at a 45-degree angle, he saw Frieda standing hopelessly in a corner with her arms crossed and an unusual red tint to her full cheeks. She had looked at her husband and whispered, _Can’t they just let children be children?_ To which Herr Teller had replied in a low, but firm tone, that she’d better shut her mouth up before he did something he’d regret.

  News of the war broke out soon after that.

   After donning his new paramilitary uniform, rolling up his sleeves and tying his black tie, Louis watched his reflection in the long mirror of his room, gazing down at himself, overcome with shame. The Nazi armband was the most disturbing thing he’d ever had to wear and he felt like the swastika was burning his arm through the fabric of his new shirt. He examined his brand-new dagger, made by Zwilling J.A. Henckels, bearing the inscription _Blut und Ehre!_

 Blood and honor.

 Even the handle was carved with a swastika. He was going to saturate.

 The wireless was broadcasting Hitler’s Nuremberg speech to the youth; the one he presumably had to know by heart, come the first day of school. He listened to it, his disgraceful reflection staring back at him.

_“In our eyes, the German boy of the future must be slender and supple, swift as greyhounds, tough as leather and hard as Krupp steel. We must bring up a new type of human being, men and girls who are disciplined and healthy to the core. We have undertaken to give the German people an education that begins already in youth and will never come to an end... Nobody will be able to say that he has a time in which he is left entirely alone to himself.”_

   In one single motion, he turned off the radio and put away the antenna. He could still hear kids running in the street outside of his bedroom window. They were screaming with joy, waving their own copy of the _Berlin Morgenpost_ and sharing their pure bliss of being part of something great. They had been in complete admiration of their parents and grandparents’ stories of the Great War for years and years, they’d listen closely, their eyes filled with dreams and glorious heroic tales, yearning to be a part of that, someday. Louis used to be one of these kids. Who could blame him?  Only, today, things were different. And when he closed the shutters, he bid a definitive goodbye to his childhood.

 

***

“Hallo, Herr Steckelberg!” Louis said cheerfully as he pushed open the little shop’s door.

   Harry's father was sitting behind the counter with the newspaper in his hands. He looked up at him and shifted his glasses on his nose. It was still unusual to see him there; him, a former member of Parliament, reduced to a modest salesman. He looked right out of place. Harry had told Louis that a close family friend had offered him a spot in his shop.

 Ariel eyed down Louis’ new uniform. “Louis ... Is it not your first day at your new school?”

“Yes.” He said, crossing his arms on the counter.

“So?” asked Ariel. “What are you doing here?”

“Still got time,” he replied, absentmindedly. “It starts at noon. Say ... Aren’t you afraid for the shop? Last year’s attack was atrocious.”

“Oh, the lease isn’t under my name. This isn’t a Jewish-owned shop. They’ve no way of knowing what I am. Plus…” Ariel smiled at him and closed his newspaper to show him the first page with the bold headlines.  “We’re at war. They’ve got bigger fish to fry, I believe.” 

“They say this might only last a few months.”

“Ah, yes! Of course! Reliable people, Nazis, they are. Harry’s in the backroom, if you want a word.”

“Danke.”

“He’s smoking, mind your lungs.”

“Will do.”

“We’ve tried to get him to stop, he just does what he wants. Oh, and his friend Eden is there.”

  Louis felt his heart drop — he closed his eyes for a second. “A-All right.” He stammered. He made his way through the little shop and let his fingers slide against old dusty hardcovers, and then he opened the back door. Harry was sitting in front of a large desk, half-hidden behind a pile of books. His fingers were tapping against the black keys of a typewriter. He paused to carry his cigarette to his lips and resumed his writing. Louis leaned against a wall and just watched him in complete awe. He loved just how soft he always looked. Everything about him was soft. His dark hair was smooth to the touch, curly all over, and he seemed to love wearing the coziest jumpers. He had a black one on, that morning. Louis thought he’d come straight out of a dream.

   He was pulled out of his mind trip as soon as he saw a young girl popping out from behind the heavy bookshelf. She had jet-black, silky hair, tied back in two twists, and her skin was slightly tanner than Harry’s. Louis looked at the way her black dress twirled as she skimmed around the cluttered floor. Her hands were carrying a little pile of hardcovers that she set down on Harry’s desk.

“Here - found them in the archive. They’re quite dusty, but…First edition, see?”

   Harry nodded but didn’t look at her. He slid the writing machine’s handle to the right, and turned his head to the left to blow the smoke. Louis drew both Harry and Eden’s attention on him as he stepped on a creaky spot on the floor.

“Louis!” They both said in the same voice.

“Hallo,” he said, his voice slightly wavering. “Hallo, Eden.”

“You gave us a fright!” Eden giggled and sat down next to Harry.

“Did I?” Louis laughed nervously. “Sorry.”

   Harry extinguished his cigarette in an ashtray, and then he opened one of the thick books that Eden had brought him. “How are you? Heard the news?”

    Louis froze in place. Harry was going to tell him that he and Eden were official — or that they were going to get married or — he stopped. He still hated that he couldn’t help but feel jealous whenever he saw them together. 

“You and Eden…”

“What?” Harry frowned in confusion. “The war, Louis. I was talking about the war.”

“Yes, of course.”

“You’re odd,” said Eden with a little smile. “What’s with the uniform?”

“That,” Louis looked down at his shirt. “…is out of my control. I’m off to this new school, they’re making us wear that at Hitler Youth.”

“Hitler Youth? Lovely. You certainly look the part.” Eden looked at Harry with a knowing smile. “Don’t they all want us dead, over there?”

  Harry leaned in to whisper something in her ear which made her laugh out loud, and he smiled, feeling rather proud of himself.

 An awful feeling was gnawing at Louis’ heart whenever Harry smiled at her, or told her a joke, or looked at her for that matter. At first, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Harry had always attracted pretty girls despite his being his usual shy self around strangers. But Eden was gorgeous, in an almost threatening way. She had eyes like a cat, a stunning hazel colour, framed by the most beautiful set of eyelashes he’d ever seen.

“Harry… Can I have a word, before I leave?”

“Sure.”

“I have some things to tell you.”

“Go on, I’m listening…” he turned to Eden. “Could you…”

“I’ll leave you two, then,” Eden stood up. “I’ll go help in front.”

   As soon as Eden left, Louis made for the desk, skirted around heaps of books on the ground, and stood by his chair.

 “Hallo, you” said Harry, with a face-splitting grin. “How d’you do?”

“Been better.”

“Ja?” 

“Mh.”

They stared at each other for a while, in silence. Louis leaned in to have a look at the typewriter.

 “We’ve got ourselves a von Goethe, there. What are you writing?”

“Oh, that’s… That’s nothing, it’s rubbish.”

“Please?”

 “Fine,” said Harry. “I’m writing a letter to Herr Maisel, he’s moved out of town. I need him to send me new airplane parts so I can build a new Hannover… The one I built is a total write-off, now. It like… crashed down, for some reason? Which is stupid, because I’ve spent months on it and I thought I’d calculated everything. Turns out I’m an idiot, and I’ve probably made a mistake somewhere. So, I’m writing to him. And I’ve been wanting to try out the typewriter for a while.”

“How…” Louis sighed a little, and continued, “Harry, how is he going to send you the parts you need if they’ve wrecked his shop and he’s moved out of town?”

 Harry blinked. “I’m… I don’t know. This is stupid, nevermind. I really just wanted to try the typewriter.” He tore off the sheet of paper and crumpled it in his hand. He threw it at the back of the room and let out a long sigh, leaning back on his chair. He visually detailed Louis from head to toe. He was standing by the desk, motionless and tense, with his hands hidden behind his back. He seemed to be floating in his clothes. They weren’t too big for him, on the contrary, they had been tailor-made. But nothing in his posture suggested that he was at ease. The red armband at the top of his arm was shouting _Look at me_!

“This is ridiculous,” said Harry. “I can’t believe your father’s signed you up for this elite academy… Are you ready?”

“Am I ready? Listen, I’d hop on the next train to the depths of Siberia if it meant I wouldn’t have to go. So no, I’m not ready.”

  Harry started to smile, but it rapidly faded away. They looked at each other and there was another moment’s silence. Harry pulled out a new cigarette and placed it between his lips. He ignited it with the lighter that Louis had given him, and started typing something on the keyboard.

“I know what you're thinking, Harry.”

“ _Ach so_?” he scoffed. “Whatever am I thinking, you clever man?”

“Stop calling me that. I’m being honest, this is serious.”

   Louis sat down on a chair. He unfastened his tie and grabbed Harry's wrist to prevent him from writing. He took his hand and began to play absent-mindedly with his fingers.

“I’m not stupid, all right.”

“No.” Harry protested. “I’m aware of that.”

“It’s just a uniform,” Louis reminded him. “They’ve got nothing on me.”

 “And what about your sisters?”

 “I’ll talk to them. I’ll corner Lotte, one of these days… Have a little chat. She’ll come to her senses. Elsa’s a lost case. And when the twins are old enough…Well, we’ll get to that later, won’t we.”

   Harry thanked him silently. He would hate to see Lotte turn against him. Little Elsa already despised him. Herr Teller made a point of educating her in his own way. Elsa was told that good girls like her shouldn’t get near filth. And he’d done such a good job of it. When they walked in the street, she’d point at the Jews she recognized from their neighbourhood and she’d ask out loud: “Is that filth, Vatti?”

   Lotte, on the other hand, was eight years old, and she always seemed to be in a perpetual state of internal conflict. She was having doubts, and she would be the only little girl to frown in confusion in the middle of the classroom when her teacher said something against Jews. She liked Harry a lot, even though her father had told her that she’d sooner befriend a rat and that it wouldn’t make the slightest difference.

“I bet Eden thinks I’m done for.” Louis added, with a hint of contempt in his voice. “Have you heard her? When I told you about the uniform? She probably thinks I might end up hating you.”

  Harry’s full lips just curled into a little grin, “You don’t honestly believe that Eden thinks of you like that? She’s not stupid either.”

“I don’t like Eden.” Louis said, decisively, and he felt like he’d just gotten rid of a heavy weight.

“Why not? We’re just friends. I’ve told you that a million times.”

“Have you told her about us? If she’s your friend, she’ll understand.”

  Harry paused and he took his time to answer. He was visibly growing irritated by this conversation, but Louis wouldn’t drop it. “What am I meant to tell her? She knows you’re my best friend. She knows how important you are to me. It’s all that matters. Have you told Frank and Julius about us, then? Or does that only apply to me and my friend who happens to be a girl?”

“She still likes you, is my point. 

“And I’ve made it clear to her that I don’t. Don’t you trust me?”

“I do.”

“Am I not allowed to have friends?”

“Yes, you are,” Louis said, irked. “You’re just putting words in my mouth, now.”

  Harry was about to reply, but then he stopped dead. His face softened and he spoke quietly, “This isn’t us. Let’s not fight, all right? You’re my only one, I need you to trust me.”

“I do, I trust you.” 

“Good then. I trust you too. I trust you not to become one of them.”

“Over my dead body, you hear me?”

“I hear you.” Harry simply said.

  Louis inched closer, cupped his cheek with his hand and leaned in for a slow, burning kiss, that left them both wanting more. When he pulled apart, and he saw the longing in Harry’s eyes, he realized just how stupidly in love they both were – they were drowning in it, had been for the past few years, and yet, none of them had ever spoken the words out loud. It was fear, and uncertainty, and perhaps something else that hindered the truth from coming out. They never actually said the words. Never, not even once.

And they never would.

And what a shame it was. Those words sounded surprisingly beautiful in German. It was Louis’ biggest, deepest regret, after he grew up and found himself completely alone and full of guilt.

  There was a world map spread across the desk, with colourful continents and names of countries and cities they dreamed of visiting. “Look.” Said Louis. “Give me your hand.”

  Harry complied, and Louis gently guided his finger all over the map. He crafted their future journey around the world on the spot, stopping on random places and asking Harry to spill little facts about the cities.

“What about…here?” Louis moved Harry’s finger over the middle of Brazil.

“There’s nobody in that region. Just trees and mosquitoes.”

“Nobody? That means we’ll be free. We’re building a house there, Harold.”

“If I could fly, I’d leave right now.”

“I know.” He said with a faint smile. “You’ll get to fly. That’s a promise.” Louis reached out to brush his finger against his cheek and poke the dimple that popped up all of a sudden. “I’ve got to leave, now… But… I’ll see you on Friday, yeah?”

 “If you survive.” 

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m coming back for you, whether you want it or not,” he laughed and stood up, noticing the crumpled sheet of paper on the ground.

“That did not sound like a threat at all.”

“Think of me when you’re in bed,” Louis chuckled while crouching down to fetch the discarded letter.

“I always do.”

“Love that for you _. Tschüss_ , _Sonnenblume_.” Louis kissed him on the cheek one last time and made for the door.

Harry couldn’t help but blush whenever Louis gave him little names. He was slowly getting used to being called the sweetest sunflower of them all. He bit his lip and held back his laugh as he watched him leave. “ _Tschüss._ Have a good day.”

“You know I won’t.”

   Louis walked out of the little shop, meeting Eden’s teasing gaze on his way out. He waited until he was at least a few blocks down the avenue to read the crumpled rough draft letter that Harry had intended to write to Eden’s uncle. He leaned against a lamppost and took a look around. In the sunny and still dewy street, people went about their respective occupations. Surprisingly, the world was still revolving.

  He smoothed out the piece of paper, and Harry's voice read the words in his head.

 

**_Sehr geehrter Herr Maisel,_ **

**_I hope you are all right, and that you and your family are safe. I’ve heard from Eden that you two were planning to leave for Sankt Gallen in Switzerland. She’s also told me that the procedure to obtain political asylum is quite long. I wish you all the best – Berlin’s a right mess at the moment._ **

**_I am writing to you because my first attempt with the replica of the Hannover CL III has failed miserably. There must have been a problem with the rotors. Either that, or my calculations were inaccurate._ **

**_In any case, I was hoping you could send me new pieces for_ **

 

      The letter stopped there. Louis folded it, put it in his pocket and forgot about it. 

      Though, he chose not to forget the fact that Eden would soon be leaving for Switzerland.

 

***

 

     Lotte and Elsa’s first day of school went far more smoothly than Louis’, for that matter. The girls were dressed in their Hitler Youth uniform from the girl’s section: white blouses and black ties with skirts to match. Louis had watched as Lotte ran toward the school’s tall gates, with her blonde braids swaying about as she pulled Elsa along. They’d met a couple of girls and some of them even turned out to be Lotte’s girlfriends from her old school.

   The academy that Louis would join had nothing to do with a primary school. It was an Elite Academy, as Harry had put it earlier. A Boy Factory, if you will, since its only purpose was to prepare a new generation to essentially become State Property.

   Louis knew they were a big deal as soon as he crossed the colossal gates of the establishment, with his father next to him. There, a very slender and very strict-looking man with a Dalí-like mustache greeted his father with a bright “Heil Hitler!” to which he replied in the same manner. The man presented himself as Herr Krüger, General Headmaster of the Academy. As he walked in, Louis glanced at the top of the staircase and spotted Frank’s cheery face. Julius was standing at his side, leaning over the stair railing with his signature blank expression.

   Frank, with his bewildering scores on the track field, had earned his place amongst the most competitive athletes. As for Julius, he owed his presence only to his father’s high ranking in the government.

   Regardless, Louis was relieved to realize that he would not be alone in what already seemed like a nightmare.

  He would’ve certainly felt more at ease had he been put with Frank in the same room. However, Herr Krüger had already taken matters into his own hands and had assigned him a complete stranger as a roommate. A strongly-built, quite obviously spiteful, oddly attractive older boy who went by the name of Haydn Deutscher. Louis scoffed and thought that he’d never heard a name that fit ever so well its owner. _Haydn Deutscher from bloody Deutschland_ _with his bloody blonde hair._ He was the epitome of the ideal Aryan boy, with his shiny hair perfectly combed aside, his full, dark brown eyebrows, and his hauntingly piercing blue eyes. Louis thought he looked like an eagle.

  Herr Krüger had instructed Haydn to show Louis around, to give him a summary of the rules and regulations, and to get him settled in their dorm. The hallways were squeaky clean and they shone and sparkled brightly under the chandelier’s light. There were more staircases and floors than he could ever remember and, out of context, Louis could not have guessed that it was a school if his life depended on it. He walked past some older girls in the stairs – they politely smiled at him and quickly averted their gaze, resuming their daily activities. So, in The Boy Factory, girls also had a place.

   In the dormitory he shared with Haydn, Louis could no longer keep quiet and so he asked, “Why are there girls?”

  Haydn stared at him for a while. “Why are there girls?” he repeated, as though it was the most stupid question he had ever been asked. “Who do you think cooks for us and stitches up our ripped clothes?”

“…Girls?” said Louis, unsure.

“Girls,” asserted Haydn, and then he added in a whisper, “Gorgeous girls. But some of them have toughened up. All the pretty ones are married now, and we can’t seem to get the younger ones to fool around with us. Apparently, that’s not what they’re here for. Nonsense, if you ask me. We’re teenage boys, stuck in the same building every week, what do they expect when they let girls walk around us like that…”

    Louis frowned and tried to make sense of what he’d just been told. Needless to say, he would understand soon enough.

   Haydn Deutscher opened the right part of a large wardrobe.

“Here’s your side. Uniforms on the hangers, sportswear on the middle shelf. Top shelf, personal belongings. Bottom shelf’s where you keep your bathroom towels and toilet kit. You ought to leave your suitcase or your bag at the top of the wardrobe.” He shut the door. “Tidiness’ a must. Once you’re done using something, you’d better put it back exactly where it was, right shelves and everything. Otherwise the group leaders come in and throw everything on the floor. I’ve learned from experience.”

“Right. Thank you for…”

“That’ll be twenty marks.”

“What?”

“What?” Haydn frowned. “Oh, did you think I’ve been doing all this for free? Krüger’s forced me to. I’m busy, and you’re _interfering_ , Teller. That’ll be twenty marks.”

“Well, sorry. I won’t give you twenty marks,” Louis held his ground even though he was shaking inside.

   Haydn’s wide blue eyes suddenly narrowed in size as he walked up to him, almost like a predator. He really was an eagle. His fingers clasped around Louis’s collar as he whispered, his fresh breath fanning over his face, “That will be twenty marks. Twenty bloody marks, or I’ll make your life a living hell. You can’t even begin to imagine what we can get away with. This isn’t kindergarten – I _will_ hurt you.”

   Without even lowering his eyes and with no expression whatsoever, Louis pulled out his wallet from which he withdrew twenty marks before handing them to him.

“Very wise, _Vielen Dank_ , Teller.”

  He left the room, shoving the money in his short’s pockets.

 

***

     When it was time for Assembly, all the boys were gathered in a large amphitheater. Giant banners adorned the walls, screaming in red, white and black. A sizeable golden swastika decorated the front podium, where Headmaster Krüger would give his speech. Louis made his way through the noisy crowd and joined Julius and Frank, on one of the top rows. Somehow, being near his friends made the whole thing seem less frightening.

    Julius shook his hand, and Louis was thrown off by the formality of his greeting. He didn’t comment on it, and settled next to Frank, who’d seized the opportunity to rearrange Louis’s poorly executed black tie. 

 “Isn’t this just great?” Asked Frank as he took a look around him.

“What is?”

“Well, _this_.”

    Louis shrugged, and met Julius’ questioning gaze. “I mean, yes. It’s a great place. If by great, you mean big, then I ought to give it to you – it is. I’ve gotten lost twice this morning.”

“You’re proper offbeat, aren’t you?” Julius smirked, and stepped closer.

“I’d just rather be at home. Don’t you, Frank?”

“ _Nein_.” Frank shook his head. “No, in fact, this place’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And my roommate’s terrific. He speaks four languages, and his father is a movie director. They’ve invited the Führer over for dinner, once.”

“What about you, Julius? Is your roommate extraordinary as well? I feel like I’ve been cursed.”

“You could say that. He’s a champion wrestler. And he’s told me that Hugo Boss is tailoring our next uniforms.”

“Brilliant.” Louis scoffed. “Ain’t life just great?”

“Why’re you upset?” Julius asked, with a hint of threat that Louis did not particularly appreciate.

“Why do you care?” 

“Ease off, will you?”

     The entire room turned silent as Herr Krüger walked in, solemnly making his way to the podium. Ancient students stood up all at once, raising their right arm at a 45 degrees angle and yelling “Heil Hitler” in a single voice. Louis was not impressed. In fact, he sat down and crossed his arms, silently planning a swift escape. 

    Herr Krüger motioned for the boys to sit down, and started speaking in a loud, booming voice.

 “I’d like to start by welcoming our new students, as well as greeting back the old ones. This year, a lot is at stake. Now, our goal is to train future soldiers willing to loyally serve in the ranks of the Third Reich. As all of you will know, the Versailles Treaty forbids our nation, once defeated in the Great War, to own an army worthy of the name. And so, _meine Herren_ , we will sidestep these God-awful clauses, and we will prepare your generation to be physically and mentally ready for fighting. Here, you will learn to become winners at heart. We will not be soft, we will not be yielding, and we will not give up. If you put your hearts to it, nothing will ever be out of reach.”

    As Krüger went on about the glorious aspects of receiving an education at The Boy Factory, Louis managed to tune him out and let his mind drift off elsewhere. It was quite effective indeed, as he missed the end of the speech and had to be jolted back to reality by Frank prodding at his sides. “What is it?” Louis blurted out, growing frankly annoyed. 

“We ought to stand up.”

    Louis reluctantly rose to his feet, about three seconds later than the crowd.

“To the brave soldiers fighting at the borders of our Reich! And to our beloved Führer, Adolf Hitler, I ask you, three times: _Sieg_!”

_“Heil!”_

_“Sieg!”_

_“Heil!”_

_“Sieg!”_

_“Heil!”_

    Had Louis been allowed to, he would’ve promptly left the place and never come back again. He’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t the least bit frightened. All the boys, including Frank and Julius, belted out the words to _Vorwärts, Vorwärts_! under Herr Krüger’s satisfied eye.

    Louis hadn’t uttered a word – he remained absolutely silent and immobile, stiff as a stick, with a harshly defiant posture about him. He stood out brilliantly, and fearlessly, with his hands behind his back and his chin held up high. He had this knack for catching people’s eye in the middle of a crowd – it often played in his favor, however this time, Krüger saw it as a personal offense.

“ _Junger Mann?”_

   The entire assembly turned around to look at Louis. He pointed at himself, “What, me?”  

“ _Ja_ , you, _Junger Mann_. Brave little rebel. Step forward, if you please.”

   Louis did as he was told, and stopped two steps away from the podium. He spun around, facing the Assembly.

“Teller, am I right?”

“ _Jawhol_ , Herr Krüger”

“Sing.”

“Pardon?”

“Sing. We long to hear that mellifluous voice of yours, that you’ve so selfishly deprived us from.”

“I don’t know the lyrics.”

“Yet I’m sure you do. Go ahead, we’re listening.”

   Louis pursed his lips, meeting Julius’ worried eyes across the room. He was gesturing in the back, mouthing the words and re-enacting them. All of a sudden, it seemed like Louis had turned into his 9-year-old self, standing in front of Van der Valk’s class with a poem to recite and with little to no recollection of the said poem.

“ _Uns're Fahne flattert uns voran...”_

“A tad louder, my friend.” Krüger pressed. “Let us hear the melody!”

    Louis struggled to keep up with Julius’ signs and facial expressions, all the while trying to recall the words.

_“In die Zukunft ziehen wir Mann für Mann...”_

    His voice rose gracefully, carrying out the tune in a slightly higher pitch than the original song– all those years and try outs at the church’s Christmas Choir hadn’t gone to waste after all, he thought. Julius’ movements turned sloppy and incoherent; one second, he’d be imitating Hitler with two fingers pressed over his upper lip, the next he’d be waving a flag, pretending to eat bread and then choking on air. 

_“Wir marschieren für Hitler... Durch Nacht und durch Not, mit der Fahne der Jugend für Freiheit und Brot...”_

“That’ll be enough, thank you very much, Teller… You’ve got a lovely tenor voice.”

    There were a few scattered laughs among the boys – Louis was not one of them.

“A _what_ voice?”

 

***

 

   The next morning, Louis was startled awake by a loud knock on the dormitory door. The group leaders were bustling about in the hallways, yelling into each room to wake all the boys up for the morning training. Louis took his sweet time – he stretched out and yawned out loud, just one moment away from falling right back asleep. Haydn Deutscher had been up for five minutes and yet he looked like he hadn’t slept at all. He made his bed as quickly and neatly as he could, folding the sheets and fluffing out his pillow. There wasn’t a single wrinkle on his bed after he was done. 

“Up with you, Teller.”

“You _can_ call me Louis, I won't tell anybody.” he muttered, with his face still buried in his pillow.

“Up!” He barked in a thunderous voice.

“All right, Kumpel, tone it down – it’s only six… _Herrgott. Jesus Christ.._.”

“You ought to make your bed before we leave, or else they’ll blame _both_ of us. I’ll not have that happen to me ever again. Understood?”

“Mate. Who hurt you?” 

    Haydn chose not to answer and Louis began messily folding his sheets, as a mental picture of his mother’s horrified face popped up in his mind. If she were to witness the scene, he figured she’d absolutely lose it. She did try to teach him to keep his room tidy before he left, but of course, true to himself, he hadn’t listened.

“Get out,” Haydn sighed in exasperation. “I’ll handle it. Just, get out of my sight.”

“Cheers.”

   Louis left the room, leaving Haydn to his additional chores. Training took place in the backyard. There seemed to be miles of lawn stretching across the field. The air was chilly, and the morning dew was still sparkling, droplets of water hanging on grass blades. Louis was shivering in his shorts and his white tank top — but soon, he’d regret ever complaining about feeling cold. The next hour would practically bring him to the brink of hyperventilation.

    Their assigned coach, Herr Liszt, began their carefully crafted training with thirty quick sprints to the line and back – some boys took off like race horses, and finished their sprints in no time at all. Louis was dragging along, barely reaching his fifteenth’s line touch. Next came the push-ups. Haydn Deutscher did them with one single arm under Coach Liszt’s pleased eyes. Then he looked at Louis, who was striving to complete a set of ten. 

“Man up, pretty boy! A five-year-old would put you to shame on that field!”

    Louis would unavoidably end up losing his mind a few times, in the months to come. But he would always be back on his feet. After a few weeks, the routine had settled in – it was fierce and it was intense, but nothing insurmountable.

   Training wasn’t the hardest thing at The Boy Factory. Rather, it was being surrounded by strangers all the time, it was having to keep his cool whenever something bothered him, it was having to deal with his nightmare of a roommate, and it was having to fit in with a crowd that was nothing like himself. He wouldn’t join Frank and Julius and everyone else when they were discussing past relationships, judging the Academy girls on a scale of one to ten, groping and grabbing them when they’d walk past their dinner table. He’d only listen to them from a distance, and laugh when he _had_ to – otherwise his just sitting there in complete silence would’ve looked suspicious. He was also the only one who noticed that one of the girls was pregnant. A tall, skinny blonde who usually served soup at their table. She always had her hand over her stomach, and he noticed that she would get randomly sick during dinner. He didn’t even want to guess who on earth could be the father among the bunch of unruly teenage boys.

 And then he learned that Haydn Deutscher had forced himself on a sixteen-year-old girl who was working at the Academy, and later that night, Haydn had suggested that Louis should try it out. _She’s one of the quiet ones,_ he’d said. _She never speaks, she won’t scream_ , _and most of all, she’s no telltale._

   “That’s because you threatened her,” Louis had pointed out.

    “Does it really matter?”

    “I don’t think it’s right, is all.”

And that was Louis’ first mistake. Haydn hadn’t replied, but he had made a mental note of that conversation. 

***

    One morning, after training, the boys were gathered in the common shower room to wash up before classes started. Louis was eagerly washing the sweat off of his hair underneath the freezing water jet. Next to him, Frank Andelman had turned into a real-life chatterbox and he was trying to get Louis involved in his plan to become the next World Champion Runner.

   “Then Herr Liszt pulls me aside and he says to me, we need to talk.” He began saying to Louis, loudly enough to attract a couple of the boys’ attention. “Then I get all worked up, thinking I’d gone and made a mistake or something. But then he looks at me like I’m made of gold. And he tells me, _Frank…. You run remarkably fast_. _But surely you must be aware of that._ Are you shitting me? Of course, I know! I tell him, yes sir, I’m aware. Everyone tells me. Isn’t that right, Louis?”

   “Huh?” He looked around the shower room, barely processing any of Frank’s words. “Yes, that’s absolutely right.”

“Isn’t it? And then, he puts his hand on my shoulder, you know, like a father would to his son, and he tells me, _well, you’re in the right place, my boy. We’ll make a winner out of you. And with a little luck, you might run for Germany one day, and hopefully win our honour back from that black American who stole it in 1936_. Can you believe it?”

 “That’s a fascinating story, thank you for sharing.”

     Something vicious had caught Louis’ eye. Haydn was strutting across the damp tiles, completely naked. Louis closely sized him up, tracking each one of his movements as he stretched his arms in what looked like a post-training tension release. The muscles in his back followed every little move he made, and Louis thought he’d never seen anyone as strikingly fit as Haydn Deutscher. As the cold water continued to pour down his back, he wondered if Haydn was aware that he looked like a Greek statue, carved out from the purest marble he’d ever laid his eyes on.

  Frank finished washing up, gathered his things and left the shower room. Louis wrapped a towel around his waist and went to the sinks to brush his teeth, still completely entranced with Haydn’s body. He watched as he styled his hair with a fine comb in front of a mirror, chewing some gum with his sharp jaw jutting out every once in a while.

   He ended up noticing Louis. And when he did, all hell broke loose. “What are you staring at, Teller?”

   The remaining boys in the room all turned around at once.

“I’m not stari-” 

“You’ve been staring at me for ten bloody minutes, what’s with you?”

“You’re crazy, I’ve not…”

“Stop lying, you _fag._ You think I’ve not noticed? How long were you going to keep that up?”

  Louis’ cheeks were burning red with shame. He knew people were looking, and there was nothing he could do about it. Haydn quickly threw his belongings into a tiny bag. He covered himself with a towel and made his way to the sinks. “Lay eyes on me again, Teller, I’ll make your death look like an accident.”

  When he left the bathroom and when Louis finally found the courage to look around, he spotted Julius in the back. If Louis didn’t know any better, he could’ve sworn he saw a fleeting hint of empathy in his dead eyes.

  When he went back to the dorm, later that morning, Louis started thinking that he would be better off dead in a ditch somewhere than in there with everybody else. He got dressed in a hurry, and he attempted to keep his side of the wardrobe as tidy as he possibly could. The door opened on Haydn. He walked in, with his hair still dripping wet and his white towel around his neck. Louis forced himself to ignore him, but Haydn wouldn’t allow it.

“They’re checking the rooms. Stand to attention.”

“What?” 

“ _Achtung_!” Haydn shoved him to the back of the room and helped him position his arms straight at either side of his body. He adopted the exact same position by his side and stopped moving at once. 

   The door opened again, and one of the group leaders barged in, his face cold and slightly distorted by a hint of annoyance. He saluted both boys, and stared fixedly at Louis, as though he was trying to remember his name. “Teller…” he said, after a while, with a tiny smile that looked anything but sincere. “ _Ja._ Tenor, Teller. Teller, Tenor. It’ll come.”

  He opened the wardrobe on Haydn’s side and merely peeked in, quickly scanning the shelves with his eyes. Then he looked into Louis’ side. Everything was in order, except a poorly folded towel and a pile of shorts he’d placed on the wrong shelf. He pointed at it. “What is this mess?”

 Louis froze in place, unable to speak. The man seized the piles of clothes on Louis’ side and threw them on the floor. Then he snatched the uniforms off of the hangers, and threw that down, too.

“On the ground.” He ordered. “Twenty push-ups, I’m counting them. _Los, los, los!_ ”

   Louis complied and dropped down to the ground. His first poorly executed push-ups made his arms feel like they were burning from the inside. The man was pressing his foot on his back. On his side, Haydn remained in position, motionless, and he was suddenly hit with painful flashbacks of his first days at the Academy.

“ _Eins... Zwei... Drei... Vier... Fünf... Sechs_ _..._ Pick up the pace, nancy boy! _Sieben_... Back straight! 

 “Stop it.” Haydn intervened with a firm voice. “He’s new, _bitte_ , stop it. He didn’t know.”

   The group leader removed his foot at once and let Louis back on his feet. “Haven’t you told him about the rules?”

“I forgot. It’ll be done properly, next time.” 

“I hope, for _your_ sake, that it will be. Watch out, Deutscher. You too, Teller.”

  Louis let out a shaky breath as soon as the man left. He sat down in the middle of his clothes and started folding them quietly.

“You’ll pay for this, Teller.” Haydn said, throwing his wet towel in a wicker laundry basket.

“Not giving you any bloody money, piss off.”

 Haydn calmly crouched down before him. Their eyes met, and Louis had to grit his teeth to avoid punching him. “I just took a blow for you. It’d be a shame if everyone suddenly realized what you are. You could get killed, what do I know? Give me your money, and I’ll stay quiet… Thank you.”

 

***

 

The classes at The Boy Factory were equally as challenging. The boys were taught about the creed and the principles of the Party. They had to learn how to maneuver high calibre snipers. They had to read and thoroughly analyze multiple excerpts from Hitler’s speeches and texts. Darwin’s famous theory of evolution was tweaked and distorted to fit into their extraordinary education program. It went like this, in the heavy textbooks: Aryan people are the superior race, and Jews and all enemies of the Reich are inferior by nature. Of course, if it’s by nature, why would argue against it?

  At the front of the classroom, the teacher was comparing the ideal Aryan model with a caricatural representation of the Jewish man, with his long beard and crooked nose.

  Louis had learnt how to tune out his teacher’s voice after a while. But as he was caught red-handed in a moment of inattention, he was asked to stand up and to read the next paragraph in his book.

“Read, Teller. We’re listening.”

“ _And never doubt that, after the Devil, he is our most vile enemy. A Jew, even virtuous…”_ His voice dropped and his brows furrowed as the words he was reading started to settle in his mind, “ _will always remain a Jew.”_

“ _Gut_. And what have we just said about this?”

“I wasn’t listening.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“Yes. But since we’ve been talking about Martin Luther,” Louis pointed to a portrait in the book. “Here’s exactly what he said. _War is the greatest plague that can afflict humanity, it destroys religion, it destroys states, it destroys families. Any scourge is preferable to it_. And sir, this contradicts everything you’ve said since the class started.” 

   Silence fell upon the room. Louis caught Frank’s eyes across the classroom: he was sliding his finger across his neck, as if saying “Do you have a death wish?”.

“Well. For somebody who hasn’t been listening, you sure do know an awful lot. How about you go to Herr Krüger’s office and discuss that with him, see what he thinks about it.”

“Why not.”

  Louis was escorted by his teacher to the General headmaster’s office. Krüger greeted him with his usual warm smile. He sent Louis into the room, had a short talk with the teacher, and then he walked in, settled back behind his large desk, with his fuming Ersatz cigarette between his bony fingers. He motioned for Louis to sit down in front of his desk, and lightly tapped his cigarette over an ashtray.

“Teller…”

“Just Louis.”

“I’m curious, you see, Just Louis. What exactly motivated you to join the Führer’s Academy?”

“My father’s forced me to.”

“I see. I understand your father is a very respectable man. He's an officer, right?”

“Ja. He’s just climbed a rank up in the Schutzstaffel.”

“Then surely you must know how privileged you are. People risk their lives every day for the Reich and you, my friend, are here. And you’re receiving the best education there is. And you’re not satisfied.”

“It’s immoral, what they’re teaching us.”

“ _Unmoralisch,_ you say. What an odd word. How old are you, again?”

“Fifteen.”

   Surprisingly, instead of getting upset, Krüger remained strangely calm. It was almost unsettling, how underwhelmed he was. He had seen his fair share of hard-headed rebels; those who dared to speak out and speak up. Boys with wide-open eyes; too open for comfort. Boys who ended up in jail, or hanged, for having tried to become revolutionaries.

  And because he had grown quite fond of Louis, he just smiled at him, and he asked him, “Why do you think people voted for Hitler?”

“They’re desperate idiots, that’s all there is to it.”

“I like where this is going. But your answer’s wrong. People voted for Hitler because their minds are alike. A man who dares to say out loud what everyone has been whispering for years? Unprecedented. Unheard of. Some say he’s a monster. See, I can perfectly put myself in the oppressed people’s shoes, trust me, I can. I should imagine they don’t carry him in their hearts. But he’s not the monster. He didn’t simply come to power out of the blue, did he, now? The man was elected by people like you and me. Civilians. Pure, transparent good old democracy. The rule of the people, it says it in the word. Are you going to tell me that the men and women you meet in the street on the daily, are monsters? That’d be absurd. Who’s the monster, then?”

    He paused just to give Louis some time to think, then he went on.

“There’s nobody to blame. It’s the natural order of things. What must happen, will happen. Your teacher has told me about your little intervention in class. I suppose it is the Jewish question that bothers you, am I right?”

   Louis gave him no answer, Herr Krüger took it as a yes.

 “But there’s nothing new under the sun. Anything that might seem immoral to you, as you say, has been deeply rooted in popular beliefs for centuries, now. Why, then? Why has it always been them, for centuries? Think about it. In any case, you should know that at such a time you have no choice but to follow the same road all your peers will take. If you have an issue with our teaching program, I suggest you keep it to yourself. To conclude, a simple advice before letting you go: rebellion is severely punished, my friend, and for your own sake… Play the game.” 

“Such wise words, Herr Krüger.” Louis finally said, his mind full of counterarguments that he kept for himself. “Thank you for the advice. You’ve completely changed my mind. You’ve enlightened me, you have. I’ll play by the rules now.”

“You’re most welcome. You may go back to class, then.”

  Louis put up a smile for him, and left the office, shutting the door behind him and muttering under his breath.“Fucking _Arschloch._ ”

By then, he had half a mind to sneak back in there in the late evening and slide some firecrackers underneath the door. His pure outrage was coursing through his veins. Powerless, was the word. He felt completely powerless. He doubted he could last very long in such a place. He hated everything about it. He hated the posters with the Führer’s face in every classroom. He hated the so-called anatomy classes. He hated the lessons. He was convinced that if the Red Flags were edible, they’d be forced to eat them for dinner. He hated all of it. But most of all, he hated being so far from home.

  At night, he had about an hour of freedom. He’d lay in bed and just stare at the ceiling. He never talked to Haydn. Even if they did want to talk, they weren’t allowed to. If the group leaders were to catch them awake after eleven at night, they’d be forced to go outside and continuously run around the track field until they dropped with exhaustion.

  The hardest thing, in his humble opinion, was spending all those days away from Harry. He missed everything about him. His lips, his voice, the colour of his eyes, his hands and the sound of his laugh. He missed burying his head in the crook of his neck and he missed how he smelled.

  He missed him with every fiber of his being, and every night, he went to sleep with the fear of returning home and not finding him there.

  So much for someone who supposedly feared nothing in the world.


	9. September 1941 - Sternenhimmel.

 Starry sky

 

     In 1941, Harry turned seventeen. As September rolled around, Berlin took a turn for the worse, and morphed into a summer night sky – a chilling, mind-numbing sight for stargazers. Just like in the countryside where the nights were clear and where millions upon millions of stars shone on a dark canvas, there were hundreds of thousands of stars as well in town. 

     Hand sewn. 

     Yellow fabric on dresses, shirts and petticoats. 

     Screaming the word “JUDE” like an insult. 

     And 10 pfennigs the unit.  

     His yellow star was stuck to him like an evil curse, and he couldn’t step outside without being stared at like a circus freak. Needless to say, he’d spend most of his days cooped up in his room and trying to make the best of every minute. However, he didn’t feel much safer at home either. The SS would often barge in at their own will and raid their personal belongings– it was their idea of fun, and Harry felt terrible for not being able to stand up to them. They took all of their books, the whole five hundred and fifty-four of them, and their wireless radio too. Harry would remain seated the whole time, hiding behind his father with his head bowed, forced to listen to the men calling Karla _The Jew’s Little Whore_. Harry loved Karla to bits, and knowing that she wasn’t safe from the hatred and the harshness he and Ariel had become accustomed to made him feel completely powerless.

     He longed to be elsewhere – anywhere, really. Eden had left for Switzerland about a year ago, with her uncle, Herr Maisel.

“We’re leaving in a week.” Eden had told them on the evening she had been invited over for dinner. “Uncle Ezra got us some passes.”  

“That’s wonderful news!” Karla had congratulated her, side glancing at Harry to gauge his reaction. 

“Papa will join us in a month.” 

 “We’re all very happy for you, Eden.” had said Ariel. “Aren’t we, Harry?” 

 “Yes.” Harry had nodded. “How did you manage to get the passes?” 

“We know a lot of people, that’s all.” Eden had explained, with a little smile. A smile that Harry deemed utterly inconsiderate.

“Well, that is great for the both of you. And for your father, too. Switzerland sounds… Relaxing.”

“Oh, it is. Sankt Gallen’s a beautiful town, right near the Alps.” 

     That very same night, as Eden was leaving, she had tried to kiss him. He had pushed her away, and apologized quietly. He would never forget the way she looked at him, and what she said before she left for good: “I would’ve taken you with me, you know. We would’ve left together. _Auf Wiedersehen_ , then. And good luck. You’ll need it.”

     Harry had felt blue for a while, basking in a strange bittersweet feeling soon after she left. He hadn’t told Louis – he  _couldn’t_. Louis was stuck at the Academy during the week, and he couldn’t waste the precious weekends where they could see each other on petty details, like Eden being allowed to leave this nightmare of a place and not him.

     On a much lighter note, Harry had grown up to become a  _hauntingly_ handsome man – he had unruly dark curls, ivory skin, sharp cutting edges for a jaw and breathtaking eyes that seemed to contain entire forests. 

     Though, now, Harry didn’t dare to look at many people in the eye.  

     Louis was an exception. 

     He knew he would always be safe by his side, he’d let him know too many times.   

     Being with Louis was a rare solace. As soon as Harry would start to feel his entire world blossoming back to life, Louis would be taken away from him and he’d be left with no news, and no comfort. 

     The closest thing to Louis was his little sister, Lotte, who had turned ten years old. 

     Lotte as well had grown into a fine young lady, sporting elegant cotton dresses, paired with lovely bows in her blonde ringlets. They’d chat sometimes, and he would be amazed by how well-spoken and how kind she proved to be. She’d tell him all about life at home, where he could no longer step foot, and about the little twins, too. That, however, was more than a year ago. Now, she wasn’t even allowed to approach him. Though as often as she could, she’d wave hello at him on the street and she’d smile just for the sake of it – he  _needed_  to know that she did not resent him the way her little sisters did. 

     And the way Frieda did, too. 

“Lotte, _Schatzi,_ move along,” she’d tell her whenever she spotted Harry on their path.  

“But I’m only saying hello.” 

“I know,” and she’d lean in to whisper, “I’ve told you not to.” 

     Harry hadn’t been able to hide how hurt he was, the first time it happened. Frieda had placed her hand on the small of her daughter’s back to push her along, and had turned to glance at Harry with a worried look. Almost laced with regret. One day, Harry swore he’d seen her mouth “I’m sorry, darling”. 

     Disappointing – sure, not surprising, though. After all, the Teller’s rank and reputation were at stake, and Harry was like a stain on their name. The fact that the Tellers’ only son was often seen in the streets with a filthy Jew had turned the family into the laughing stock of the neighbourhood. Rockenfeld Strasse’s very own blabbermouth, a pesky old woman with four missing teeth and a window-rattling voice would watch Louis and Harry from the window, “ _Would you look at these two?_ ”, she would laugh, “ _It’s like they’re in love! What a shame!”_

     And so, it was no wonder that Frieda Teller had felt compelled to _do something_. This sudden change in her attitude was born from the enthusiasm of her husband’s new position. But it had also cost her Karla’s friendship. They had a fight, one morning, and then they never spoke again, putting a brutal end to their 26-year-long friendship.

    Hermann Teller had been promoted to Major, and decorated by Heinrich Himmler, one the highest dignitaries of the Third Reich, with Frieda by his side. He’d acquired the title of _Sturmbannführer_ , after several years spent climbing the glorious ladder of the Schutzstaffel. The whole family had attended the function – it’d been their crowning glory. Being upper class had its perks. Those came in the shape of a stunning car from the SS’s official vehicles: a shiny black Volkswagen, as well as a telephone, and a brand-new wireless radio.

     At the ceremony, Herr Teller had made a point of ignoring Louis, swatting away his words as though they were annoying flying insects. He’d even condemned him to absolute silence, the day the Tellers had been invited to dinner at Himmler’s table. Herr Teller had taken Louis aside before going out, and he’d told him: “I don’t want a single word from you tonight, or so help me God I’ll ruin you. If you think I’m not aware of what’s going on with you and the Steckelberg boy, think again. You’re dead to me. Consider yourself lucky I’m not denouncing you to the Gestapo.”

 

***

 

     It was a Friday afternoon in the beginning of September. Downtown, passersby worked their way through a swelter of smoke and foul air, and through the sweaty crowds huddling around near-empty crates of fruits and vegetables, holding out their rationing coupons and waving them around.

     Not far from there, Karla was rushing Harry away from the heart of the city, with her arm wrapped around his shoulders, her face strained and quite obviously seething. She kept looking around and over her shoulders, quickening her gait and urging Harry to pick up the pace. He did as he was told, hiding his face from the world.

     When they made it home, Karla closed the door and locked the three locks they had to reinstall on an almost weekly basis – they’d be obliterated when the SS wanted to break in. Harry dropped down on a wooden chair from the kitchen, with his hand still covering half of his face, which was scrunched up in pain. Karla opened the shutters, letting the warm summer air in. It blew through her short blonde hair; she ran her fingers through it, feeling how sweaty it’d become. She let out a shaky sigh, took a few seconds to regain her composure, and went off to the kitchen to open the fridge, and took out a tiny bag of frozen peas. She pulled a chair from the table and sat next to Harry, gently removing his hand off of his face.

“Let me see.” She said, softly.

“It’s stinging.”

“It’s swelling up, _Herrgott_ …” She pressed the cold bag against his bruised skin and he winced in pain, letting out a quiet whimper. “This can’t happen again; do you hear me? I never want you to stand up for me. This is no time to be a hero, you could’ve…”

“I don’t care,” he mumbled. “He deserved it.”

     Karla’s tears welled up in her eyes as she leaned in, cupping his face with her hands. “You’re everything to me. I don’t want to lose you,” she begged. “I love you so much. Let them say what they want, I just want you to stay alive.”

“You don’t deserve to be treated like that, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

“And what have _you_ done to deserve this, you sweet boy? I just want you to be safe. Never, ever, ever stand up for me.”

     Harry gave her no answer and just sat there, frowning and fuming, reminiscing this afternoon’s event. In a shop, he had a fight with a man in his early twenties, a certain Hugo Rosemann, son of a shoemaker, who told Karla he wouldn’t serve no Jew’s whore as long as he was alive. It seemed like the expression had turned into a trend; it had originated from God knows where, and it was circulating through the disgusting mouths of soldiers and officers, slowly claiming its place in the vernacular and reaching the impressionable ears of the civilians. Harry had done a good job holding himself back for months (years even), but something about the way Hugo Rosemann had spewed the words, with his foul mouth and the harshness in his tone, made him snap. He hadn’t been able to help it; he’d pinned Hugo to the ground and beat him up blindly, taking a few hits in the process. Karla had quickly pulled him out of this mess and taken him home in a hurry; their last rationing coupon was about to expire, and the misery of the next few days was already glooming over them like a dark cloud.

“If Louis sees me like this, he’ll kill someone.”

“Why are you thinking about him?” she asked. “He’s the last thing you should be worried about, right now.”

 “He’s still my friend. I know that Frau Teller and you don’t speak anymore, but Louis still cares about me.” 

 “Louis is a very nice boy, but his family’s not like him. Be careful.” 

 “He knows that. He keeps me safe.” 

     Karla leaned back on her chair, and she looked at him with the kindest eyes. Something about them made him feel like he was the most important person in the world. “It’s a good thing that you can trust him,” she said. “You must love Louis very much.” 

 “Oh, I do.”  _If only you knew._

 “When are you seeing him again?” 

 “In an hour or so.” 

“Tell him I said hello.” 

“He’s coming here. He says he hasn’t seen you in a bit and he wants to stop by. Is that all right?” 

“ _Natürlich_. Louis is always welcome here. Whenever he wants.” 

     As soon as he heard a knock at the door, about thirty minutes later, Harry leapt off the sofa and nearly slipped on the carpet as he ran in the hall, “I’ve got it!” he told Karla, zooming past her. 

    “I know, love.” 

     He opened the door and there he was, leaning against the door frame, with his arms crossed over his chest. He was almost eighteen now, and there was still a mischievous light to the icy blue of his eyes. He’d grown taller, and his hair was shaved on one side, his fringe left intact. He still had that crooked smile, the one that showed his sharp teeth, but he definitely did not look like a child anymore. His smile faltered immediately when he saw the forming bruise on Harry’s face. He cupped his cheek with his hand, his thumb gently stroking the bluish skin underneath his eye. A deep frown settled on his face. “What happened to you?” 

“I got into a fight.” 

“Oh, is that right?” 

“Are you doubting me?”  

“Of course not, Saint Harry. C’mere.”

     Louis went for a kiss as Harry leaned back against the wall. Their lips were pressed against each other and as Louis stood between his legs, Harry placed his hands against his lower back, deepening the kiss as he let his hands drop a little lower.

     Louis broke their embrace, just enough to whisper against his mouth, “Fucking missed you.” He placed a trail of little kisses along his jawline.

“Missed you, too.” Harry replied, completely smitten, eyelids heavy with desire.

“What’s with the heels?” Louis giggled, looking down at Harry’s ankle-high boots. “What are you trying to reach? The sky?”

“You know it.” 

“I say you’re cheating,” he complained.

“I’m taller than you anyway, I’m playing fair.”

“Lies,” he hissed, with a bright smile. “Filthy lies, ‘s what they are. 

      They promptly pulled apart when Karla joined them at the door. Louis’ face lit up, “ _Guten Tag,_ Frau Steckelberg.”  

“Hallo, Louis,” Karla smiled. “How nice of you to come here.” 

“It’d be rude of me not to. You look very pretty today.”  

“Why, thank you… Please, come on in.” 

 

***

 

“I’m afraid we’ve run out of biscuits. We’ve still got a scrap of sugar for tea. Or coffee, if that’s what you prefer.” 

“Anything’s fine,” said Louis. “It’s not looking so bright in our pantry either. What with the rationing and everything.” 

“You must be having a hard time,” Karla poured a little milk in his cup. “I remember when you were little. You wouldn’t stop eating.” 

“It hasn’t changed much, I still eat a  _shit ton_  if I’m honest,” Louis laughed, “I'm trying to tone it down, but... Food is food.”  

     Harry kept quiet during tea. His plate was left untouched; he merely settled for silently watching Louis and Karla chat over the kitchen table as the hot September wind gently blew from the window, brushing over his skin. He looked at Louis, marveling at tiny little details that usually went unnoticed. He only nodded every once in a while, when Louis sought his approval on something. It was overwhelming at times, his heart would triple in size whenever Louis burst out laughing, whenever he touched him, whenever he called him _mein Sonnenschein_. My sunshine. He was wrong, he thought. He wasn’t the sun. Louis was.

     After tea, Louis suggested they went out to the Tiergarten park.

 “I’ll come by tomorrow again, Frau Steckelberg. If that’s all right, of course.” 

 “ _Jederzeit_ , _meine Liebe_. And please, for the love of God,” Karla called as they left through the door, “Be careful, you two!” 

     Before they reached the ground floor, Louis held Harry back by his hand and they stopped dead in the middle of the dim staircase. “Want to see something?” Louis whispered, looking around to make sure no one was spying or eavesdropping. He didn’t wait for Harry’s answer and he unbuttoned his thin jacket, revealing a bright yellow star, pinned to his shirt.

 Harry’s features hardened all of a sudden, “What’s wrong with you?” he half-whispered, half-screamed. “Take it off.”

 “I’m not taking it off. It’s unfair if you’re the only one wearing it.”

 “Are you stupid? Take it off!” Harry insisted, reaching for it. Louis shoved his hand off and casually buttoned up his jacket, completely indifferent. “You’ll get in trouble. They’ve killed people for less than that. I’m serious, please.”

 “Ease off, yeah? I’m trying to show solidarity. Thought you’d like it.”

 “You thought I’d- Yeah sure, of course I’ll like it when you’ll get shot, you absolute idiot.”

     Louis pouted, shifting his weight on one leg, and then the other. He looked up from beneath a thick range of eyelashes and said in a small voice, “Can’t you at least pretend to be happy?”

     Harry softly sighed, “You’re the worst.”

 

***

 

“You’re not talking much, are you?” Louis questioned, laying down on the grass of the park, underneath a big oak tree, in a deep, hidden part of the park where no one ever went.

“Reckon you did the talking for the both of us, back there.” Harry sat down with his back against the tree bark, and pulled out a cigarette he’d rolled himself with some tobacco he’d found in a hidden jar.

“May I have one?” Louis did not wait for his reply and reached for a new cigarette in Harry’s pocket.

“You don’t smoke.” 

“I’ll smoke if I want to, big boy.” 

“You’re a menace.” 

“I am, aren’t I?” he agreed and propped himself up on his elbow, fidgeting with Harry’s little blue lighter. “Matter of fact, so are you, now, aren’t you? Picking up fights with God knows who.” 

“Some _mistkerl_ insulted Karla.” 

 “Warranted. You did the right thing. I’d have knocked his teeth out, too.” 

     They just stayed there for a while, smoking away and coughing every now and then. A summer breeze was gently blowing through the trees’ thick foliage. They could hear a few cars nearby on Bachstraße, but it seemed to them that the usual liveliness and energy of the town had been faded out to a mere background noise. Right about now, nothing mattered. The sun was burning, and the cicadas were chirruping, and it reminded them of their shared childhood. Not so far from their spot, some years ago, Louis had guided Harry’s little airplane right into a tree. 

     Harry blew through his cheeks, letting the smoke rise up and high.  He lay down on the soft ground with a long sigh, holding his cigarette between his fingers. He felt the grass tickle his bare arms, and he took a deep breath. Louis threw the rest of his cigarette somewhere in the grass, unsheathed his little dagger from the side of his belt, and he started carving something in the bark with the sharp blade.

“How do you write _Verbrechenspartner_?”

     Harry chuckled a little. “V-e-r…”

“I’m getting a headache. You know what? I’ll write it in English.”

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, his hand reaching over to brush against Louis’ cheek.

“You’ll see. Don’t look.” 

     A little bird fluttered past them, and came back after a few seconds. It landed on the grass and hopped around, looking for food. Harry turned his head to him, with his cheek against the ground, and he extended his hand gently. The bird ignored it and flew away. “Remember when you got my plane stuck in a tree?”

     Louis grunted, jamming the blade into the hard wood. “Don’t remind me. I still feel awful. I’ll make it up to you, one day.”

“You think it’s still out there?” 

“Maybe.” He said, with a fond smile. “Hey, don’t look.”

 “I’m not looking.”

 “Good. Remember Haydn? My roommate?” Louis asked, hoping to distract him from his work in progress.

 “What about him?”

     Louis bit his lip in anticipation, flicking some sawdust off of his fingers. “We were at that parade in the streets, right. The one I told you about, where that girl fainted ‘cause it was too hot?”

 “Yeah.”

 “Well, Hitler was there. And… and I can’t make that up, all right… Haydn started crying. Proper tears, can you believe it? Fucking Deutscher has the emotional range of my left shoe and he burst into tears ‘cause he was so emotional.”

“It’s actually sad, don’t you think?”

“I don’t care. I laughed, to be honest. And Hitler, well… That look he has, it’s… terrifying. Plants literally die when he walks past them. He breaks stones with his soul. I’ve never seen anyone quite like him, just radiating pure evil. I hope I never see him again.”

     There was a short beat of silence, and then he heard Harry laughing. “Your left shoe.”

 “I swear to you. I wish you could meet Haydn to see for yourself.”

     Harry’s laugh died down to a mere smile. And even that disappeared after a minute. He didn’t get to laugh very often, and it would warm Louis’ heart whenever he heard him giggling and when his dimples popped up on his cheeks.  A few years later, Louis remembered that afternoon they spent in the park. Making Harry laugh by the end of 1941 had become one of the most difficult tasks, if his memory was right. Louis had become used to cold, heavy silences on his part.

 “It’s too calm in here.” Harry whispered. “It’s worrying.”

     It was calm, indeed. It wouldn’t be, by the beginning of 1945, though, when the Tiergarten would be the house to Soviet tanks and bombshells, and when the city would get blown to smithereens.

     Harry closed his eyes, enjoying the last rays of the setting sun, dyeing the sky a warm, fiery colour. When Louis finished adding the last details to his work of art, he lowered his eyes to look at him, deeply moved by the rich colour of his delicate locks and by the tiny little daisies growing around him, the soft orange glow on his face, and his hand resting against his chest, rising and falling to the rhythm of his breathing. He wanted that ugly blue bruise under his eye to disappear; how could anyone want to hurt him?

     Then, an intense, familiar wave of _something_ washed over him; his heart ached, his throat swelled up and his mind raced a million miles an hour. Had he been braver, he would have told him right there and then, just how outrageously beautiful he was, how much he meant to him, how much he loved him, how much he wanted to spend his last days in his arms, never letting go. Thinking back to that day, _this_ was the moment where Louis hated himself the most. The moment where, if he had a time machine, he’d travel right back to, and he’d make things right.

     Louis shoved his little dagger back into the holster of his belt. “There.” He said, with a weak voice.

     Harry opened his eyes and turned his head to look at the tree.

_H.S + L.T_

_Partners in crime_

_since 1931_

“It’s… spelt correctly.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“I _do_ like it.” 

“Want me to carve a heart around it and turn the whole thing into a gross cliché for future generations to see?”

“No.”

“Wunderbar, then.” 

     Harry wrapped his fingers around his wrist and pulled him closer, pondering his next words as Louis hovered over him. “… Kiss me?”

     Who was he to refuse? He happily obliged, sealing their lips in a hungry, deep kiss. They’d pull apart to breathe and find each other again, once every few seconds, their minds clouded and their cheeks burning to the touch. They could kiss for hours, theoretically, they just chose to take things further before that could happen. Louis’ hand glided up Harry’s leg, softly stroking his way up to his crotch. Harry quickly pushed his hand away, suddenly aware of their surroundings. They’d already gone past that step – multiple times. They loved getting each other off with their hands, and Harry even went as far as taking him in his mouth, one night, as a surprise. Only now, doing anything outside was totally out of bounds. Louis understood and didn’t press. He crossed his arms on Harry’s chest, resting his chin on his own forearms. Harry gave him a half-smile, and in a deep, whispered voice, said, “You’re really pretty.” 

“Why, thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.” He replied with an equally amused smile, undoing the first few buttons of Harry’s shirt. He placed a soft kiss on his bare chest and rested his head against it. “I can hear your heart beating,” he said, after pressing his ear there long enough to perceive a steady thud.

“I’d be worried if you couldn’t.” He laughed.

“Only beats for me, doesn’t it?”

“No. Actually, it beats because it’s pumping blood through my body, so I don’t really need you.”

“ _You’re_ the absolute worst.”  His laughs were muffled against the fabric of Harry’s shirt. “Can’t ever be romantic with you.”

“Bring me flowers next time.”

“Anything for you.” He whispered. “Hey, I heard your stomach, too. Are you hungry?”

     Harry’s smile disappeared once and for all. And Louis didn’t recall ever seeing it again after that day.

“Have you had something to eat today?” Louis asked, worry lacing his words.

     Harry avoided his eyes, and he replied, “This morning, yes.”

“That’s not true, is it.”

“I’m fine.”

“No.” Louis felt a twinge in his heart. “You’re not fine. Let’s go eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I’ll pay, all right? Let’s go.”

“I said no. I don’t need your money,” he muttered, trying to sit up. “Get off me, will you?”

     Louis sat back up quietly, ruffling his hair and watching as Harry fumbled with his small packet of tobacco. He rolled a new cigarette, lit it up and carried it to his lips, his eyes lost and fixated somewhere in the distance, near the road.

“I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”  Louis said, and kissed his cheek.

     Seeing Harry getting all quiet and defensive was _killing_ him. He’d see him chain-smoking countless cigarettes a day. And if he had no tobacco or any by-products of it, his hands would start shaking. Never mind the amount of sleep he was getting: his dark circles were there to stay. And he’d lost so much weight over the past few months, it seemed like he was back at that miserable state he’d found himself in when he was seven, back when he refused to eat anything. Louis knew very well that he was terrified – he was constantly on edge. And Louis would be lying if he told him there was nothing to worry about, or nothing to look out for. They both had everything to fear, and all that Louis could do was distract him.

 

***

     As soon as they stepped foot on Rockenfeld Strasse, they found themselves face to face with a young man who didn’t look a day older than eighteen years old. But he had a uniform on. And a heavy rifle slung over his shoulder. 

 “Curfew’s eight o’clock for Jews, what the  _fuck_  are you two doing outside?”

“We’re just going home,” Harry tried to calmly explain.

“Hang on a minute,” Louis said. “Who do you think you’re talking to, mate?”

     Harry stiffened on the spot, and all the colours drained from his face. He quietly nudged Louis on the ribs to let him know he should  _stop_. Louis did nothing of it and he stepped forward with his typical pride and his reckless stance.

“Step back,” said the SS.

“What are you going to do?” Louis snapped. “Do you know who my father is? Do you?” 

     The young man pursed his lips, unimpressed, and looked down at the yellow star pinned to Louis’ shirt, painfully visible under his open jacket. He pointed it out with a quick chin movement. “No. Tell me, who  _is_ your father? I’d love to know.”

     Louis felt his heart drop, blood rushing underneath his cheeks. He lowered his gaze and, sure enough, the star was there, right against his heart. He cursed under his breath. “Fuck… I… I’m German, I swear to God, I’ve nothing to do with them, my… my father, he’s…” He stopped to look at Harry, and he realized he’d messed up beyond repair. His eyes were harsh and disapproving. His teeth were clenched and he looked plainly disgusted.

“Papers.” 

“Don’t have ‘em.” Louis said quietly.

“Fine. Hands up, face the wall, the both of you.”

     Before they could do anything, a shiny black Volkswagen pulled up on the side of the cobbled street, with two Red Flags flapping about with the wind. Herr Teller stepped out and stood between Louis and the armed man. He quickly saluted him, as was their practice, “Heil Hitler.”

     The young man stood to attention with his hand raised up, “Heil Hitler, Sturmbannführer.”

“That’s my son you’re holding there.”   

     The SS pointed to Louis' star, unconvinced. “Is your son Jewish, then?”

     Herr Teller glared at him, baffled by the way this second-class SS was speaking to such a highly-ranked Major. “He’s not Jewish, he’s just an idiot.” He leaned towards Louis and ripped off the yellow star from his shirt. “What were you thinking,  _Schwachkopf_?”

     The SS pointed his weapon at Harry, “What about him?” 

“No idea. Do whatever you want with him, I’ve never seen this boy before.” And with that, he disappeared, forcefully dragging Louis away and into their building.

     Harry was left alone with the man, immobile, his heart pounding against his ribcage and his knees threatening to give out. Their eyes met, and against all odds:

“Go on, then. Go home. Hurry, you dirty rat, before I change my mind.”

 

***

 

     An entire month had gone by, and Harry realized by the end of September that Louis had not come back from the Academy on the weekends. One day, he found a way to talk to Lotte, all the way up from his bedroom’s window, early in the morning. 

“Lotte!” he whispered. 

     The little girl turned around and took a quick glance around her, only to look up after a while, “Hallo, Harry.” 

 “Hi,” he murmured. “Has your brother come home last weekend? 

 “No, he hasn’t,” she replied, placing her hand over her forehead to cover her eyes from the sun.

 “Shh… Lower your voice. Do you happen to know why?” 

 “Vatti’s told him off for something. He’s staying at the Academy on the weekends, now.” 

 “Do you know when he’ll be back?” 

 “Not before Christmas, I’m afraid.” 

 “Right. Thank you, Lotte.” 

     Then, Frieda’s voice called her from the sidewalk, “Who are you talking to, young lady?” 

     Harry crouched down and sat on his bedroom floor. 

“No one, Mutti.” 

“Get going, then. You’ll be late.” 

     Harry’s stomach was tied into knots. He felt like crying and tried very hard not to give in. The whole world felt like a blur at the moment. Ariel knocked twice at his door before walking in, holding a brown envelope in his hands.  

“Guten Morgen,” he said, dropping the envelope on Harry’s desk. “You’re up early,” he noticed. “Somewhere you need to be?” 

“I just needed to speak to Lotte.” 

“That’s a very Shakespearian way to speak to someone.” 

     Harry managed to smile a little, and rose to his feet, rubbing the sleep off his eyes. “Who’s this from?” 

“Fräulein Eden Maisel.” 

“Oh.” 

     Harry felt a sharp tug in his heart. 

“Now, I did  _not_  open it, for your information. But every single letter is checked at the post office.” 

 “You mean they read everything?” 

“That’s very likely. But I’m sure Miss Eden is aware of that. If her letter managed to make its way here, then there must be nothing compromising in there. I’ll leave you to it.” 

     Harry instantly recognized the delicate writing on the back of the envelope. He pulled out the letter and unfolded it.

     

    _Lieber Harry_  

_I hope this letter finds you well._

_Uncle Ezra and I listen to the radio every day, and I’m aware of the tremendous horrors they’re putting you through. I’ve foolishly thought that the war would only last a few months. I now realize that I was wrong, and every day I thank God for letting me escape with my uncle._  

 _My father wasn’t so fortunate, as they’ve arrested him at the border and sent him back to Berlin in no time at all. They don’t allow Jewish immigration anymore. I don’t know when, or if I’ll ever see him again, and I miss him to death._  

_If, by any chance, you happen to be anywhere in Switzerland in a near (or far) future, let me know. I’ll make sure that we meet up somewhere, I’d love to see you again. I’m sure you’d love the sights. The Alps and the Bodensee are to die for, and the air is so pure, I’d probably choke if I was to ever step foot back in Berlin._

_I found myself missing you more than I’d ever like to admit, and I know it’s been so long since we’ve spoken, but I cannot seem to move on, or forget about you. You were one of my best friends. You are kind, selfless, and ever so lovely._  

 _I hope that you are happy, and that your family is doing fine as well. I’d really love to get some news from them, and from Louis Teller, too._   _I hope you’re still friends; I know how much he meant to you, and I hope he’s making your life a little better._

 _Please do write me back – but be careful._   _May God watch over you._

 _I’ll always love you, my dearest friend._  

_Alles Liebe, Eden Maisel._

 

     Harry folded the letter back into its package and gently set it atop his cluttered desk. His heart was beating fast, and he felt a growing lump in his throat. A sheer feeling of jealousy was slowly creeping in. Her words seemed well-intentioned, but he couldn’t help but read between the lines. _Here’s what you’re missing. I feel bad for you. You could’ve had this life. It’s your own fault. You should’ve been with me. He’s not right for you, but I am_. What a foul letter, he thought. Should’ve just sat there in your little mountains and kept your mouth shut.

     He decided not to answer, and spent the next few weeks waiting for Louis to come back. 

     Except that when he did come back, nothing was the same, and it was the beginning of the end.


	10. October 1941 - Zuhause.

Home  

    Survival at The Boy Factory five days in a row _was_ possible. Louis would know, he’d done it dozens of times over the last two years. However, being stuck there for two months straight was starting to get to his head. In the meantime, Haydn had quit the Academy and joined the ranks as an enlisted man. He’d been sent off to fight at the Moscow front and Louis was left alone in his dorm – not that he was complaining, but loneliness took a heavy toll on him. The only goal he had in mind was to escape, no matter what.

   And so, one day, he was “caught” wearing the red badge of a resistance movement (caught wasn’t the right word; it was as though he’d done everything in his power to _be seen_ wearing it) as a bet led by his friends. He had intentionally worsened his situation by refusing to answer when Herr Krüger took him in for questioning. Herr Krüger told him that if his father wasn’t so well ranked in the SS, his whole family would’ve been blamed for rebellion. Nevertheless, Louis’ plan turned out to be a blazing success. He had been taken out of the school, and his father had been called over to take him home.

   That day, Louis climbed on the passenger side of the car, not even condescending to spare a look for him. He looked out the window on their way back home.

“You’re my biggest disappointment,” said his father. “My _only_ one. I can’t even begin to tell you how ashamed I was, back there.”

  The words jostled in Louis’ head, gnawing him from the inside. He tried to shrug them off, but they reappeared incessantly, like bad seeds in a garden. His father had been such a role model for him, when he was little. He remembered looking up to him, swallowing his words when he’d tell him all about how great the country would become, how brave and selfless he had been during the Great War. He always saw him as a hero who couldn’t possibly be defeated. A loving father to his little girls – especially Elsa, whom he’d drowned in gifts and clothes and shoes and kisses. Surely, a man like this can’t be entirely bad.

  Yet, Harry _loved_ to argue that _yes, in fact, he’s a bad man._

   In a brief argument they had had earlier this year, Harry had told him, “Your father’s a bad person. He wants you to end up like him. So now you decide. It’s him or me.”

  And in a stubborn, aggravating way, Louis would find excuses for him, resolutely setting a veil between himself and the truth. That day, he had given Harry no answer. He’d left his room, letting his last words hanging in the air “Come back to me when you’re done acting up, Harry. I’m not dealing with your little temper tantrum.”

  Suffice it to say that Harry never came back, and that Louis had to find a way to make it up to him. They had settled it in a matter of days, and up until now they seemed to have put all of this behind them. The topic was never brought up again, but it was evidently the main source of tension between them, and in view of their increasingly frequent, violent and repetitive arguments, it was unavoidably going to wear them out.

  When the car slowed down in Rockenfeld Strasse, Louis managed to pull himself together. He would find Harry and then everything would be all right, again. As soon as the car was immobilized, he jumped out of it, slamming the door behind him. He quickly made his way to the end of the little street, and when he spotted him there despite the fact that it was late, his heart filled with perhaps too hasty a delight. It all crashed down at breakneck speed when he realized that Harry was with a girl. She was against the wall and he was standing before her, with his hand against the red bricks near her head. Louis wouldn’t have felt _half_ of the burning ache in his heart if they weren’t standing so dreadfully close to each other and if he hadn’t seen the dimple on his cheek, the one that liked to pop up whenever he smiled.

   Louis approached calmly, sizing up the stranger. The girl was wearing a steel blue dress that matched her pretty eyes, and there were two little white flowers in the midst of all those brown curls. She had high cheekbones and pink cheeks, and Louis thought she looked like one of the twins’ porcelain dolls. His heart missed a beat when he saw the yellow star sewn on top of her dress.

“Hallo.” Louis simply said, in a low, detached voice.

  Harry slowly turned to face him, instantly losing his smile. “Hey. They let you out of jail? Who bailed you out?”

  Louis remained silent for a while, his eyes going back and forth between Harry and The New Girl. _Why couldn’t it have stopped at bloody Eden?_ “They’ve kicked me out. So… I’m here.”

“Glad you’re out, then. Louis, this is Nora. She’s just moved into your building, right downstairs. Her family fled the persecutions in Hamburg.”

 Nora held out her hand with a sincere smile on her full lips, “I’m very happy to meet you, Louis. Harry’s told me a lot about you.”

     He looked at her hand with sheer disdain. There was a thick Austrian inflection to her words – a frustrating emphasis on certain syllables and an intonation that made his own accent sound rough and unrefined. He didn’t like the way it made him feel.

    Nora lowered her hand in shame. She looked at the bold swastika on Louis’ arm, the yellow star on Harry’s shirt, and she wondered how on earth they had become friends.

  Unexpectedly, Louis lost his temper. He snapped, in a brutal, military-like tone, “Curfew’s at eight. What are you still doing here? Get back inside.”

  Harry frowned, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me. You’ve no right to be there. Go home.” When none of them moved, Louis continued. “What is it? Do you want me to call my father? Do you know what he could do to you both?”

  Nora swiftly left the scene, disappearing inside the building and shutting the door behind her.

  That last threat felt like a punch in Harry’s stomach. He didn’t dare to look him in the eye and he ran away, dashing up the stairs on his way home, Louis closely trailing behind him. “Harry, wait. We need to talk. I didn’t mean it, I just needed her to leave. Wait up!”

“Go away.”

    Louis found a way to sneak behind him before he slammed the apartment door. Harry crossed the hallway in two long strides and locked himself in his room, leaving Louis outside with no remorse whatsoever. Ariel called his name from the kitchen. “Harry? That you?” 

  Louis sighed and replied, “Yeah. No, actually. Harry’s locked himself in his room.” He turned to face Harry’s father and he tried to ignore the damned star on his shirt. “Reckon he’s a bit angry. But we need to talk… Could you..?”

“What’s happened?” Ariel asked, slightly worried. He knew the boys were close beyond explanation. An argument of this size was bound to be serious.

“Nothing…” Louis said, doing his best to remain calm. “We just need to go over something.”

“Right. Harry?” he called. “Open up, please?”

“No.” 

   Ariel let out a small sigh – he’d never had to deal with one of Harry’s fits. And he thought he’d grown past the age of trying to rebel. “Please. Open that door, I’m sure you’ll sort it out, like you always do. Go on, now, don’t be like this.”

  The door finally opened. As expected, he was livid. His jaw was clenched, and there was a real storm in the usually calm green of his eyes. “Door’s open.” 

“Right,” Ariel said on his way out. “Sort it out, you two. _Calmly_ , Harry.”

  When he left, Harry lashed out. “What do you want? Come arrest me, why don’t you? What are you waiting for? Where’s your _father_?”

“Let me in.” Louis said, quietly.

    Harry stepped back and felt compelled to obey. Shaken as he was, he couldn’t bring himself to turn his back on Louis. He stood before him palpitating like a bird, composed, tense for flight, right in the middle of his little room. Louis walked in, and Harry felt like he was invading – which had never happened before. Louis shut the door behind him, calm in his movements and maintaining a disturbing silence. The last sun rays were piercing through the shutters, streaking the air with strips of light.

 “Who’s this girl?” Louis asked blankly.

“Nora Salzman. She was born in Austria and she’s seventeen. If you need to know something else, go ask for her papers.”

“Let’s not play this game, all right? You fancy her, just say it.”

“She’s just nice,” Harry pleaded.

“Nice. Right. Is that code for _I want to fuck her_?”

“Do you hear yourself when you speak? We’re just friends, if you can’t trust me, that’s on you. What you did was extremely rude.”

“Rude? I wasn’t here for _two_ months, and I’ve done everything to get kicked out on behalf of my principles and come back here for _you_ , and then I see you with her and you expect me to just…”

Harry scoffed, “Principles? Please. You still call your father to get yourself out of trouble, _what principles_? Should I remind you what happened last time?”

“Listen… My father told me I was his biggest disappointment…”

  Harry could’ve burst out laughing right then. He didn’t. “Cry me a fucking river,” he smiled. “What’d you do, throw a fit?”

“Let me finish,” Louis retorted dryly. “He told me that. But it was all worth it, ‘cause you’re here, now. I’ve missed you so much. I drove myself insane, back there, you’ve no idea what it’s like. I wore this red badge to let them think I was part of a resistance movement and…”

“You made them _think_ you were in the resistance, is that it? My God, how noble of you. Is this the part where I’m meant to throw myself down at your feet and worship you like the hero you are?”

“Oh, is that not enough for you? Do I have to get shot in your name for you to be satisfied? Get a grip, mate, you’re not exactly the center of the universe. And yet look, look at everything I’ve been doing for you. I talk to Lotte and Elsa, all right? I try to teach them not to hate, not to become spiteful, disgusting, vile human beings, and I do that, knowing fully well that if one of them spills something at school, we’re _all_ dead. If anybody finds out I’m speaking out against the regime, they’ll take the kids, send my mum to jail and fucking shoot me. Are you aware of that?”

“Pity.” Harry simply said, avoiding his eyes. “Must be hard.”

“You’re being a brat, right now.”

  Harry shook his head, searching for a way to formulate his thoughts. He lowered his voice and used a slightly softer tone to speak. “You know what? You were gone for two months. Lotte’s told me some stuff.”

“Lotte? The kid’s ten and a half years old, she doesn’t know shit, what could she have possibly told you?”

“She said you wouldn’t come back until Christmas. You’ll be eighteen by then. She knows the Academy boys are sent away to fight on the front at that age.”

“You’re telling me you wouldn’t have waited your whole life for me? Because if I were you, I would’ve. I would’ve waited all my life. I wouldn’t have jumped on the first girl that came along.”

  Harry felt a lump in his throat – he swallowed it back. “That’s not how things work, though.”

    Louis’ shoulders slumped, releasing all the tension he’d been holding up. When he spoke again, it was in a heartbroken voice. “You used to tell me I was your only one.”

   It took several seconds before Harry replied. “You still are. I just don’t really like who you are right now.”

   Louis stared at him thoughtfully. Harry and Nora _made sense_. He and Harry didn’t. He felt like he was slipping through his fingers, and that there was nothing he could do about it.

“It’s still me. I’m here.” Louis said. “I’m with you, now.”

  Harry looked down at his feet. Louis stepped closer, wrapping his arms around his neck and pressing his forehead against his. “Look at me. We can leave. We’ll leave everything behind, and we’ll go far away. They’ll understand. There’s nothing for us here. Just say yes, I’ll find a way. And look, remember how you wanted to fly? All the cities you wanted to see? We’ll do all of that,” he whispered, with a strangled voice. “I know you want your freedom, and you _can_ have it, so please…”

Harry gently pushed him away. “I can’t do that. I can’t leave with you.” 

“Why not?”

“You’re like a kid, see, you think everything’s _so_ easy, because nothing’s ever happened to you. Have you ever lost somebody?”

Louis stared at him blankly, with his throat tight. “What are you on about? What have you got to lose?”

“I just want to make things easier.”

“You’re making absolutely no sense. What’s… Wait. I know.” 

   Harry frowned, waiting for him to complete his sentence; Louis pondered about it for a while, then suddenly it dawned on him. “My father told you to stay away from me, didn’t he?” 

  When he refused to answer, Louis instantly realized that he’d just hit the bull’s eye. “Is that it, Harry? You wouldn’t be saying that otherwise, I know you.”

  Harry still wouldn’t speak, and kept looking straight at him, his eyes welling up with tears. It only managed to further convince Louis. He started pacing around the room, “Since when do we care what my father thinks or does for that matter?”

“He threatened me,” he said. “He said he’d hurt my parents.”

 “Did he, now.”

 “I think it’d be better if we just…”

    Louis cut him off, “You can’t do this to me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So, you’re ready to give it all up, just like that? I wore that bloody star with you, that day. I risked my life for _you_. And you just…”

“Who the fuck asked you to do that?!” he shouted, his voice loud and booming and threatening. Louis almost jumped – he’d never heard him snap like that. “You could’ve taken it off. _I_ can’t. When have I ever asked you to put your life at risk for me? And what’s worse, you’re complaining about it. I won’t give your father a reason to hurt me or my family, they’re all I have in the world. Your father’s a horrible human being who had to kneel in front of fucking Hitler to get to where he is now and to earn all of this money. Everything you wear, everything you eat, everything you buy, that’s where it all comes from. See, you already know that, and yet you still defend him when I tell you about it. I have no respect for any of you.”

  Then, there was a long stretch of silence.

  And there was Louis, staring at him listlessly, not daring to break their eye contact. He didn’t lower his head, or his eyes. “You’re yelling at me.” he noted. “Are you trying to scare me?”

“No.”

“No, that’s right. ‘Cause if someone ought to be scared right now, it’s you. Shall we have a look outside, then?”

  And then it was a little too much. Harry held back a sob and wiped away the tears underneath his eyes. “Have you even been listening to me?” he asked, in a broken voice.

“I have. And I understand what you’re saying.”

   Harry knew deep down, despite everything, that he’d won the argument. From the moment Louis had made a comment on his tone of voice, he knew he had nothing else to add. He blinked once, and he saw the kid he’d fallen for, ten years ago. And that same kid asked him, “So that's it? It’s over then, you and me?”

“I don’t see how we could sort this out.” He sniffled and sat down at the edge of his bed. “So, it’s up to you.”

“Up to me? Are you sure?”

   Harry felt his heart beating faster, but he didn’t answer.

   Louis seemed to have come to his own conclusion. He walked up to shelf on a wall. He slowly took hold of a small DC-5 wooden model that Harry had just finished assembling. He looked at it closely, then he turned to Harry and spoke with an odd austerity, a voice that neither of them recognized. “And you say _I’m_ the kid. What’s your plan, then? You’re trapped here in Berlin and your dream’s dead. And I’m the delusional one? That’s funny.” 

  Harry swallowed back tears once again, his jaw tense and his fists balled at his sides. Louis set the little plane back on the shelf.

“Ten years,” he continued. “A full decade. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? How are we meant to make ten years disappear, just like that?”

“We don’t have to throw it all away.”

“Well, in this case, tell me what you want.”

   There was no answer.

“This is all on you, mate.” Louis said, one hand on the doorknob, ready to leave. “You’ve messed it all up.”

“It’s just less complicated this way.”

“Yeah right. Fuck you. Have a good one.”

   He shut the door on his way out and never looked back. He rushed out of the block with a palpitating heart and a buzzing sound in his ears, stepping out in the empty street; the early evening breeze felt like a blast of cold air on his blazing cheeks. He had to stop for a moment. He buried his head in his hands, eventually dragging his fingers up to his hair, pushing the strands back and staring at his father’s empty car. He took a deep breath and tried to get hold of himself.

  On his way up the staircase, he crossed Nora Salzman’s path. She was crouching on the stairs in front of a small child. She lifted him in her arms and when the little boy looked over Nora’s shoulders, Louis realized he looked an awful lot like her, with his steel blue eyes, and with a bright oversized yellow star, sewn on top of his plaid shirt.

“Hey.” Louis whispered tentatively. Nora spun on her heels and her eyes widened when she spotted him. She climbed up the last couple of stairs, as though she was escaping from him. It was like a wake-up call; he’d been horrible to her, and this was not who he was. “Wait. Please, wait, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said.”

  She paused once she reached the floor. He joined her, holding out his hands in front of him as he would do approaching a scared child. “I don’t mean any harm, really, I’m terribly sorry. I’m…happy to meet you.”

  Nora just stood there, holding the little boy tighter. Louis nodded at him, “Who’s this?”

“My brother,” she replied, with an astounding softness to her voice. “His name’s Peter, he’s a bit shy… Peter, say Hallo to the neighbour?”

  Peter hid his face in the crook of his sister’s neck and refused to say hello to Louis. He’d seen his Nazi armband and got scared, as his parents often warned him against men and boys wearing Red Flags. Nora just let out a breath of laughter, “He’ll come around eventually.”

“I should imagine.”

“I’m confused. Have I done something wrong, earlier? Have I offended one of you, or... I’m awfully sorry, I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

  Louis scratched the back of his neck and leaned against the handrail, “No. You haven’t done anything, it’s… It’s between me and him. It’s complicated.”

“Okay,” she quietly agreed. “I know you mean a lot to Harry. I’ve barely known him for two weeks, but you’re all he ever talks about. It's a shame. He’s a good person, you know.”

  Louis just nodded and blinked away the tears. He _knew_ that already, he didn’t need her to remind him. “He is. I’m sorry, I’ve got to go. Nice to meet you, though. Be safe.” He tilted his head and tried to smile at the kid. “See you around, little one.”

 

   ***

  

   Coming home after two months was less comforting that it had any right to be.

   The place looked smaller, there were toys everywhere and by the savoury blend of smells emanating from the kitchen, Frieda would have supper on the table anytime now. Elsa and the little twins nearly made Louis lose his balance as he stepped through the door. He crouched down to give the girls hugs and kisses and pretended to listen to their endless blabber. He told them he’d been sent on a Secret Mission and that it was the reason why he’d disappeared for so long, and then it dawned upon him that his father had used the same excuse with him when he was younger.

  Once the girls eventually grew bored of him and went off to play in the living room, he dropped down onto the only free sofa. The other one was packed full of gift boxes and gift bags, labeled to Lotte, Elsa, Luzi and Matilda’s names. Louis drew his knees up to his chest, idly watching the girls pretending to be hairdressers. Elsa had the longest, silkiest brown hair; it reached her lower back, and the twins always squealed with delight whenever she let it out of its usual tight braids. They’d make her sit cross-legged on the floorboards and they’d braid and braid and braid until her hair looked ridiculous at the end -- she loved it, though, she would get the brightest smile on her lips, revealing her three missing teeth.

  The wireless was on, perched upon a high shelf next to the china cabinet, way out of the kids’ reach. The words crackled to life and spoke of the Wehrmacht’s progress in the East; German forces had just pierced the Soviet defensive line south of Tula.

  But none of this seemed to matter. Louis had been holding back tears for God knows how long, tiny droplets were threatening to roll down his cheeks and he was painfully aware of his swollen throat. He’d just crossed a line, and there was no going back. The pain was excruciating, and strangely vivid and physical, too.  

  As soon as Herr Teller walked into the living room, Elsa bounced to her feet and jumped into his arms. He led her to the sofa and they opened her gifts together. She’d received new suede shoes, winter dresses and cotton stockings, for no particular reason. The twins got a ton of new wooden toys and two very pretty wax dolls imported from Paris. When Lotte entered the room, her eyes immediately landed on her brother. He looked downright miserable, and had her father not been there watching her every last movement, she would’ve tried talking to him. Instead, she turned off the radio and put away the antenna, claiming that she needed some peace to study. She gathered all the gifts labeled to her name, gave her father a weak, put-up smile and returned to her room. The little ones were getting along with him just fine, but Lotte was a smart little girl and saw right through him. Gone were the days where he could buy her love with presents.

   Herr Teller motioned for the girls to leave the room, gave one last satisfied glance to Louis, and joined Frieda in the kitchen.

  And Louis started crying.

   Frieda watched from a distance with an amount of concern that only a mother could feel. She couldn’t do much to help, right there in front of the stove with a wooden spoon in her hand and the insignificant words of her husband floating around her. She did try, though. She made for the living room, but Herr Teller held her back by the strings of her apron, silently threatening her.

  Louis Teller had never been an unhappy boy, and no one seemed to remember the exact moment it ceased to be true.


	11. December 1941 - Stille Straße.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! just a warning for this chapter: there's quite a lot of violence and it could be upsetting for some, but keep in mind that this stuff really did happen and for the sake of historical accuracy, it had to be done. also tw for the death of a minor character at the end of this part.
> 
> there might be 2 chapters left but we're still far from the end; i hope you all are enjoying this so far and i hope you keep reading even though it's not looking so good right now. the next chapter will be set at the end of the war, we'll be right back at the prologue and the story will pick up from there.
> 
> thank you if you're reading and/or leaving kudos, it means a lot!!!

 Silent Street

 

“I want to leave.” Harry announced one morning, when he was alone with Karla.

   She stored two glasses in a small cupboard and retrieved an old cloth from a drawer to clean the surface of the counter. “And where would you go?”

“I don’t know. Just have a bad feeling about the next couple of days, is all.”

   He crossed his arms over the table, crushing some bread crumbs in the process. He rested his chin on his hands and delved deep into his thoughts. He’d been thinking of leaving Berlin for almost a year, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to tell Karla or Ariel. He would be eighteen soon, and remaining cloistered within the toxic walls of this city was out of the question. He now knew that the journey around the world he’d been dreaming of since he was a child would have to wait; the priority was set to one thing only: survival. Escaping the regime and living a life worthy of the name, somewhere where he could breathe and look at the sky. Of course, Louis was the first one to suggest it. But escaping with him meant signing his own parents’ death warrant, at the hands of Louis’ father. Harry would be lying if he said that Louis’ proposal hadn’t seduced him terribly. But the only way to leave safely was to leave alone.

“I wouldn’t mind,” said Karla, leaning against the counter. “But Jews aren’t allowed to leave the country. They’ll see the red J letter on your passport and they’ll send you right back home. Do you remember your uncle Adam, Ariel’s brother? He joined us for your thirteenth birthday.”

   Harry nodded, and she continued. “He lives in Sweden now. And he’s fallen ill. He’s had two heart attacks last month. Your father’s asked for permission to leave for a week… They said no.”

   He buried his face in the middle of his crossed arms, and Karla reached out to softly stroke his hair. Her love for him was beyond explanation, but he very obviously wasn’t meant to live this kind of life. Karla knew it from the very first day; he was destined for something greater than himself. It seemed to her that he had been fading away in front of her own eyes – falling to shreds and flaking away with every passing day. She figured the same thing would happen to a bird whose leg was stuck between two rocks, preventing him from taking off and starving him to death.

   The last two months had been rougher than usual. She had an inkling as to what this could’ve meant: whenever she mentioned Louis’ name, he’d brush it off passively and he’d change the subject. When she asked him why he hadn’t come over in a while, he just said that he was busy and that he had other friends. But Karla saw right through him – perhaps their little game was finally over. She’d watch him from the kitchen window whenever he went out to have a smoke. It was a pretext to spend time with Nora Salzman, a young girl who smiled all the time and whom Karla had taken a liking to. However, The Nora Topic was out of bound too, as she will know.

   A simple “How’s Nora?” would be received with a nod and a softly spoken, distracted “Good”.

   That afternoon, when Ariel returned, bringing with him a gust of icy wind from the staircase, he placed a chaste kiss on Karla’s lips and stopped dead when he saw Harry looking so miserable. He whispered to Karla, “What’s wrong with him? Is he sick? God, I hope not, they’ve just arrested the pharmacist on Kaiserdamm.”

“He’s not sick, Ariel, he wants to leave.”

“I know that.” He stood next to him. “ _Sieh mich an_ , Harry. Look at me.”

   Harry did as he was told.

“That’s what they want, isn’t it?”

“Who cares, at this point?” he muttered. “This isn’t about petty games, this isn’t about dignity. It’s about survival. Look at everyone who’s left since 33.”

   Karla chimed in, “Harry’s right. He wants to leave, and he’s right.”

“All right. Fine. Is that really what you want, Harry?”

   Harry frowned, and a small, confused smile sketched itself on his lips. Ariel’s question implied that he might have the means to send him somewhere else. “More than anything in the world.”

“Where to, then?”

“Well…” he paused, eyes lost in the room. He’d never given it much thought. “Herr Maisel’s son left for New York, so…”

“When was that?” asked Ariel suspiciously.

“1935.”

“Well there you go. I wouldn’t risk it today, if I were you. America doesn’t care what happens to war refugees. You wouldn’t be the first one to be denied access. I know how these things work, that used to be my whole career.” He looked over to Karla, and she gave him a sympathetic smile. “Look. Your best bet is either Sweden or Switzerland. They’ve been known to welcome asylum seekers for years. And I know for a fact that the Swiss are helping the resistance and the intelligence services.”

   Harry’s growing enthusiasm faded down instantly. “I can’t leave the country.”

“You can.”

“What?”

“There is a way,” he simply said, taking a seat next to Harry. “That’s how I’m planning to go to Sweden to see my brother. See they’re smart, but they’re not infallible.”

   Karla quirked an eyebrow and gave him an incredulous look, “What else are you hiding from us, you clever man?”

“Listen,” said Ariel, taking off his glasses and setting them on the table. “Yesterday I met with an old friend of mine who used to work with me in the Reichstag before the fire. He was sacked when Hitler came to power, but he’s making a living in his own basement now. He forges counterfeit passports and passes for people who need to leave. He’s managed to recreate the official stamp they look for at the border, same colour, same shape. Thousands of people have fled since October thanks to him.”

“Do they have to wear the star?” Harry asked, full of hope.

“Of course not. If you want to leave, Harry, this is your chance. It’s a fortune, I won’t lie, but… It’s a small price to pay for freedom, I believe. The only thing is that it would take two weeks, these documents are in very high demand and he works alone.”

“Two weeks, that’s nothing,” Harry said with a face-splitting smile. “I can wait two weeks!”

“Does Zürich sound good for a destination, then?”

“Yes! Yes, it’s perfect!” he couldn’t help but throw his arms around Ariel’s neck, hugging him tightly.

“If we get this done for you, we won’t be eating for a month,” Ariel warned jokingly, hugging him back.

“Who needs food, anyway.”

   He couldn’t believe it. He could leave, this could be all over. He could start a new life in Zürich. He could go back to school, maybe go into aeronautical engineering or even flight school, he could breathe and walk and run freely, he could feel like he was a child again.

“Eager to leave us, then?” Ariel asked when they pulled apart. When he held Harry’s shoulders, Harry noticed the faint crow’s feet around his eyes and it hit him just how many years had gone by.

“I’ll come back for you. And when I come back, I’ll be a pilot. Probably. Hopefully.”

   Karla wordlessly studied the both of them. Rare were the times when she had nothing to say. This was one of them. She met Harry’s eyes after a while and he stood up in turn, pulling her into a snug embrace. She whispered to him, with her mouth against his hair, and her words sounded strangled, “I love you so much, sweetheart.”

“I love you too. Thank you for everything.”

“He’s not left just yet,” Ariel intervened. “Would you save that for later, you'll make us all cry.”

   Karla shook her head and spoke again. “Sit down, I’ll make you something to eat.”

  

***

 

   When Julius Meinhardt got shot in the arm in the shooting range, Louis was convinced the Meinhardts would sue the Academy and that it would be the end of it. It didn’t happen like this. Julius’ father pulled him out of the establishment and promised him he’d find him a place in an even better institution. For now, he was enrolled in a regular school. Given his arm injury and the fact that he had to wear a cast, he had to stick to ordinary lessons and workshops in the Flieger Division, which specialized in war aircraft. But the school in itself wasn’t unyielding toward its students: training took place in a _snow field_.

   Louis hadn’t witnessed the accident, he just knew that the most incompetent Academy boy was scared of weapons and that he’d accidentally pulled the trigger while it was pointing at Julius’ right arm. Now that they were both out of The Boy Factory and that Christmas was coming up, Louis and Julius hung out more often than not. Today, they found themselves in Julius’ grandfather’s pub in the center town. The place was dim, with weak lighting and red brick walls, dominated by August Meinhardt’s hard, unforgiving eyes, scrutinizing anyone who walked through the doors. No one could get in if they didn’t salute properly. Everybody’s papers were checked thoroughly before they could even step foot inside the premises.

   Julius got beers for the both of them, but even the foaming mug with a bright copper coloured beer couldn’t manage to cheer up Louis, whose eyes were now as cold as the mid-December sky.

“The Flieger’s boring,” Julius complained. “And don’t quote me on this, but I miss the training.”

“Harry would’ve loved the Flieger.” Louis said, more to himself than to Julius.

   In hindsight, Harry's near-sick obsession with flying was perfectly justified and understandable. Who wouldn’t want to fly away in a flutter? Who wouldn’t want to be completely free?

   After several years spent at his side, Louis started to understand, slowly but surely, that flying was not just a childhood fantasy for Harry. It was an _ideal_ around which he had built his life.

   Julius stared at him. And the fleeting memories of a summer night in Bavaria materialized before him. Louis recalled their confessions on the top bunk. He remembered how Harry was always wary of their friends’ opinion on them. Julius’ name had been brought up during Louis and Harry’s most important discussion.

“I haven’t talked to him in weeks.” Louis said in a hushed tone.

   With the help of his only free arm, Julius carried his nearly full glass to lips and took a sip. “That’s mental. To be fair, I thought you two would end up like my brother and his…. Boyfriend.” He’d whispered that last word.

   Louis was at a loss for words. He couldn’t come up with a good enough answer, so he decided to stay quiet.

“Thought you’d have it figured out, by now,” Julius picked at a chipped spot on his cast. “Remember when you were in church with us, one day when we were younger, and the preacher asked everyone to pray for the eldest son of the Meinhardts? I just… I thought you knew. My brother, Oskar, he’s… one of them.”

“Oh.”

“I was cross with him for the longest time.” He admitted, avoiding his gaze in shame. “Used to look up to him, and then Opa caught him with a boy in his room. He hit him so hard, I think he broke like, four teeth. I was mad because he left, soon after this. He went to France with his boyfriend, then he got on a boat that was leaving for New York City. He got there and then he sent me a letter to tell me that it was freezing cold there, and that their new neighbour had just been freed from jail. And nothing else. Never heard from him ever again.”

   There was a moment of silence; Louis’ fingers tapped nervously against the worn wood of the table.

“I hated him for all of it, and I never mentioned him to the boys at the Academy. I mean, he’s one of them, but he’s still…Oskar. My brother. Then you and Harry came along, all… lovey-dovey from the start. It was like Oskar and his boyfriend all over again. I was just angry all these years… Thought it was gross... Thought Harry would get you in trouble like that man got my brother in trouble or something.”

   The collective smoke of all the cigarettes in the pub was floating around, and Louis felt like all breathable air would soon run out. He slumped into the red bench, resting his head against the brick wall behind him, just below a huge framed picture of the Führer. Hitler’s eyes had followed him all the way from the front door, until he sat down at the table.

   When he ran a hand through his hair, he felt like he was being watched.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “It sucks, it really does. But… Harry and I… It wasn’t like that. It never was. We’re… We _were_ ,” he painfully corrected himself, “friends. Very, very good friends, that’s all there was to it. Maybe Harry was… Maybe he _is_ … whatever he is, but I know I’m not. Besides, it’s wrong. Isn’t it?”

   He had a flashback of a younger version of themselves, greedily kissing under a giant weeping willow on the hottest day of the summer of 1937. _Wrong._

“I want to believe you.” Julius said. “But I’m not stupid.” He lowered his voice and looked around. “I just think it’s wrong because he’s a Jew. Do you realize how dangerous this could’ve been for you, this whole time? Putting your whole family at risk? Thank God you’ve cut ties with him.”

   With quite a bit of hardship, the cold sun pierced through the frosted window, reflecting through Louis’ full mug. He lifted it to his mouth and gulped half of it down in one go. He slid down a little on his bench and sized up the pretty waitresses skirting around the massive tables and high red stools. He had a hard time grasping the appeal of their bodies, he tried to make sense of the attractiveness of their curves, he even attempted to give a smug smile to one of them as she walked by. She just frowned and walked away.

“It’s great times, we’re living in.”

“You’ve nearly lost your bloody arm. Tell me about great times again.”

   Louis would’ve gone on were it not for Julius’ grandfather approaching their table. August Meinhardt was a lanky man, made out of stone, and his breath smelled like the words _Heil Hitler_.

“Your father’s looking for you, _junger Mann_. Up with you, quickly, now.”

   Julius slowly stood up, cautious with his cast. He followed his grandfather and managed to slip a small “Tschüss, be careful” to Louis before he disappeared outside the pub, letting in a swirl of snowflakes and cold wind on his way out.

   Louis finished his beer alone, and followed soon after.

   He walked down the main street, disoriented and staggering, dodging faceless people and zigzagging between uniforms and tweed coats with his head down, his snow-covered hair and his cold hands. He used to look forward to this time of the year. The trees would twinkle beautifully, the heavenly smell of roasted chestnuts would remind him of his childhood; he missed the thrill of looking forward to Christmas, he missed the magic of it. He would sometimes get a glimpse of that bubbly joy he used to feel, if he walked around Berlin’s Christmas Market with his little sisters. It wasn’t the same, now. On every wall, from every window, hung large flaming Red Flags emblazoned with bold swastikas. In tiny hidden alleys crept worn-down, starving people, hiding out in shame. A week ago, he had seen a man getting dragged out of his bakery and thrown into a waiting car, and he had stumbled upon a group of boys roughing up a small child, pushing him around and tripping him on the dirty snow. It would have caused _outrage_ all around, if it wasn’t for the yellow star on the kid’s coat.

   He heard the church bells echoing in the distance, continuously tinkling. There was a choir singing in the middle of the public square, as was the tradition every year around Weihnachten. _Stille Nacht_ was a huge classic, but the nights in the town didn’t even come close to being silent.

   Harrowing memories of a night in December resurfaced, along with the phantom feeling of almost-eight-year-old Harry and their warm hands intertwined. It was ten years ago, in the middle of the center town.  

   The voices sang in perfect harmony, and it seemed to him that they were singing louder and louder, faster and faster. It also looked like the snow was falling _toward_ the fluffy white sky.

   Back on Rockenfeld Strasse, all the agitation and abundance of noise and music came to a brutal end. 

   Harry was standing near the rusty metal of his door. He was smoking as usual, wearing his long black coat. White snowflakes decorated his curls.

   Everything was grey, Louis thought. There were small hints of colour, though. There was _hot red,_ at the tip of his cigarette. And there was _aggressive yellow_ on the star sewn to his coat. He saw the word JUDE before he even saw him. The star was accomplishing its main purpose.

   Louis continued to walk with his head down and pretended he hadn’t seen him, abruptly bumping into him with his shoulder.

   He couldn’t pretend much longer. Louis turned around once he reached his door. Harry’s expression that day remained engraved in his mind for years. Like a photograph, a true-to-life memory he didn’t want anything to do with.

   They looked at each other, with their lips sealed close, and yet they said more things than if they had actually spoken. Louis’ eyes were hard and full of reproach. Harry’s were compassionate, and he worried about him more than anything else. If a month earlier he was still on the defensive, today he only felt bad for him.

   Unable to look him in the eye any longer, Louis went home. He slowly climbed up the stairs and noticed there was a shabby teddy bear with one missing eye, on one of the steps. He’d seen little Peter holding it in his arms, and so there was no doubt as to whom the bear belonged. To relieve his heavy conscience, he decided to bring it back to him. He knocked on the Salzmans’ door and after a few seconds, Nora opened up. “We haven’t any sugar.” She said, recalling the last time Louis had come up to them.

“That’s not what I’m here for.”

“Oh.” Her face turned pale, and she started imagining thousands of scenarios.

   Louis showed her the teddy bear and she let out a sigh of relief. “It was in the stairs.”

“Dankeschön. It’s nice of you to bring it back. Peter’s thrown a right fit this morning… Come on in, then.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah,” she opened the door further, inviting him in. “You must be cold.”

   There was nothing much to see in the Salzmans’ small apartment. Most of their possessions were stored in cardboard boxes, and it seemed like they were getting ready to move. Louis briefly greeted her parents and told them he was just passing by to give Peter his teddy bear. Rachel and Otto Salzman had been rightfully suspicious of Louis, earlier last month. Being the son of an SS Major made him a threat by default. But he had been quick to make it clear that he did not mean any harm, and he’d been so kind to Nora that she wound up vouching for him.

   Nora served him tea and dried up salty crackers on the living room’s coffee table. Peter was playing with a small wooden train between the legs of a chair, and he stopped as soon as he saw Louis with his favourite bear in his hands. His eyes widened as Louis handed it to him.

“You’ve left it in the stairs.”

   Peter grabbed the bear and scampered out.

“Hey!” Nora called out, urging him to be more polite. “ _Komm züruck_ , come back here and say thank you.”

   He came back with a slight pout, toying with the disjointed ear of the little bear and staring at his mismatched socks.

“Louis’ a friend,” Nora insisted. “He won’t hurt you. So, what do you say?”

“Danke,” he muttered with a barely audible voice.

   Louis smiled fondly. “You’re welcome, Peter.”

   The child left the room in a hurry and Louis took a seat on a sofa. He nodded toward the boxes, “Are you leaving, then?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been here for two months, you’ve hardly had any time to settle.”

“I know, but…” Nora paused, glancing inside her parents’ room, whose door was wide open. They were folding clothes and piling them up in suitcases. “A man came to us, last week. He wanted to take our names. And the landlord said he would end our lease. He didn’t want to tell us exactly what was happening, he only mentioned something about a relocation. They took most of our stuff, so we could travel light. At least that’s what they said. All lies, if you ask me. We were told the same thing when we lived in Hamburg, back in October. That’s why we fled.”

“Do they say that to everyone?”

“I don’t know about the others,” she replied truthfully. “It’s like that with us. My father says they’re deporting people and calling it _relocation_. It’s ridiculous.” She took a sip of her tea, and continued. “All we’ve been doing since the beginning of the war is fleeing where it’s still allowed. Now we’re stuck in Berlin, and we might have to go into hiding.”

   She paused, suddenly aware that she’d let herself go and that she might’ve revealed a little too much. Louis looked at her thoughtfully, and she spoke a little lower, “Please, don’t say anything to your parents.”

“Of course not!” he immediately replied. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody.”

“If they ask you where we went, just say you don’t know.”

“Don’t worry,” he repeated, wrapping his fingers around his cup of tea, warming them up against the crackled porcelain.

   None of them could’ve guessed the fate of the people who’d been rounded up in Hamburg. One day in October, entire families had been snatched from their homes and taken by train to Warsaw, where they had been left to fend alone in ramshackle ghettos, with no food and no supplies. Corpses littered the streets.

“Have you told Harry goodbye?”

   Louis’ head snapped up. “Goodbye? What for?” 

“Didn’t he tell you? He’s leaving for Zürich, Switzerland in a few days. He’s out of here as soon as he gets his fake passport.” 

“Zürich?” Louis repeated incredulously. “Zür- why? What’s he going to do in… He hasn’t told me anything!”

“Well... Think about it. Anywhere’s better than this place. I’m thrilled for him.”

   And there it was. Harry was leaving, and it meant that everything was over for good. Louis quite liked the fact that they were still neighbours, that he could see him every day if he looked out the window at the right time. Obviously, he wouldn’t make the first move, but as long as he was there, there was still a sliver of a chance.

   It had vanished with Nora’s announcement.

   His features hardened as he remembered their argument. Louis had suggested that they escape together, and Harry had refused on the pretext that he was delusional. And today he was getting ready to leave without even telling him about it.

“You can always talk to him,” Nora suggested. “He’s still here.”

“No. He’s a big boy, can stand on his own two feet. He doesn’t need me, I don’t need him,” he mumbled, trying to convince himself.

“Boys.” Nora just smiled and shook her head. “Always so proud. Again, it’s a shame.”

“Is it, really.” 

“He told me all about you when we first met. It’s funny. He’s very smart, you’d think he would have other topics of conversation. When you came back, he stopped. He stopped talking about you, he stopped laughing, he stopped going out… except for smoking, of course. He loved you to bits. What a waste…”

“He loves me so much he’s leaving for Switzerland without me.”

   Nora chuckled, “Then go talk to him, for God’s sake, tell him that.”

“I did and he was a dick about it, so.”

   She sighed, settling back into the sofa. “Listen. I don’t know what happened between you two. But you’re wasting time. And I don’t mean any offence, but…grow up. Be an adult, and tell him goodbye. Otherwise I know for a fact that you’ll regret it.”

“It’s nice of you to try, really. As I said, he’s a big boy. If he wanted things to work out, everything would’ve been settled a long time ago. I’m here. I’m always here and ready to listen if he wants to apologize. Thanks anyway.” He stood up and said, “Harry was right.” 

“About what?” 

“You’re very nice.”

   She gave him a shy smile, and he bid her good night as he walked to the door. Peter was standing there, spying on him from behind a wall.

“Hey,” Louis crouched down before him. “Don’t be afraid.”

“People like you killed my auntie.” He said, with an accusing tone that sounded like it could’ve come out of an adult man.

   Louis felt his heart sink. “I’m sorry. I know there’s bad, bad people out there. But you’ll be all right. And your family will be all right, too. They’ll keep you safe.”

   Peter didn’t look convinced, but he stopped hiding.

“I must go, now. Gute Nacht, little one.”

 

***

 

   There was a knock at the Steckelbergs’ door that same day. When Ariel opened the door, he found himself face to face with a tall man holding a list in his hands. He didn’t look very aggressive, just blank, and straight-faced. 

“ _Das ist die Steckelberg familie, richtig_?”

   Ariel frowned, “Yes. What is it?”

   The man didn’t wait for an invitation and stepped forward, entering the apartment. He made himself at home and pulled a chair, setting his list on top of the table, along with two black fountain pens.

“ _Namen, Nachnamen, und Geburtsdaten, bitte.”_  

   Ariel remained speechless, standing in the middle of the kitchen, right next to Karla. She was petrified but she tried not to let it show as she held Ariel’s hand behind his back.

“Did you not hear what I’ve just said?” He took his glasses off, holding Ariel’s impassive gaze. “Names, last names, and birthdays.”

“What’s this about?” asked Ariel, glancing over his shoulder to take a look at the hallway. Harry had opened his bedroom door.

“If I have to ask you one more time…”

“I’m Ariel Steckelberg. I was born on July 4th, 1901.”

   The man with the list scribbled the information down, and after a while he looked up, “This is _Wohnung 4_?”

“Yes.” 

“You,” he pointed to Karla. “Name.”

“Karla Hertz.”

   He wrote her first name down without thinking, then he stopped dead. “Hertz, that's German. Is Hertz the maiden name?”

“It’s my actual name.”

“Not married, then?”

   Karla and Ariel exchanged a knowing look, and she replied, “No.”

“Papers, may I see them?”

   Karla retrieved her papers from a tiny drawer and handed them over. He scanned them quickly, scratching his head in confusion when he read that she got “divorced” in 1938, then he crossed her name off and looked up from his list “There is a boy who lives here. I need his name.”

“Harold Steckelberg,” Ariel said, and he knew deep down that there was no use in lying to him, he already knew the crucial bit of information. “Born February 1st, 1925.”

   Ariel stepped closer and managed to peek at the list.

  

SALZMAN, Nora – 02/27/1925            Rockenfeld Straße, Whg. 12

 

SALZMAN, Peter – 12/31/1936            Rockenfeld Straße, Whg. 12

 

SALZMAN, Rachel – 05/16/1902          Rockenfeld Straße, Whg. 12

 

SALZMAN, Otto – 08/10/1897              Rockenfeld Straße, Whg. 12

 

STECKELBERG, Ariel – 07/04/1901     Rockenfeld Straße, Whg. 4

 

STECKELBERG, Harold – 02/01/1925    Rockenfeld Straße, Whg. 4

 

 

 “Excuse me, what’s this about?”

“That’s all I needed to know. Good day.” 

 

***

 

   The next day, when Louis returned from the afternoon he’d spent with Julius, he heard loud voices arguing in the kitchen. Frieda’s voice was blazing with fierce indignation and rampant fury, but Hermann’s was calm and composed, speaking to her with an infuriating condescending tone, as though she was nothing more than a teenage girl. _They’re just children!_ Louis heard her yelling. _Children, for the love of God, what have they done to deserve this? The youngest in the block is six years old!_

   After hanging his coat on the coatrack, Louis stopped all movements and tried to listen without making himself known. He heard his father saying something in a hushed tone, something harsh and that sounded like a threat. Then Frieda lashed out again.

“I don’t care. This is wrong. All of this is wrong, can’t you see? If you carry this out, I’ll go out and I’ll warn everybody, and…”

   And then, there was a loud crack. He had evidently just smacked her across the face, and she fell silent. Louis couldn’t bring himself to step into the kitchen. He padded along the entrance, quietly making his way into the girls’ bedroom. Lotte was alone in there, sitting in the middle of her tiny bed with her hands covering her ears. She took them off as soon as Louis walked in. She had tears in her eyes, and she wiped them away when he sat next to her on the bed. She’d been sleeping alone for the past few days— Elsa and the twins had been sent to their grandparents’ house in Potsdam, and Lotte had refused to come along. 

“Are they done?” she asked in a small voice.

“I think so,” he reached out his hand to gently stroke her golden hair. It gleamed with the soft light from the oil lamp on her bedside table. At the opposite side of the room, there were three other beds. The room was cramped and bursting with clothes and toys and books. Lotte would always complain about the lack of privacy – she hated sharing her room with the little ones. The Tellers were meant to move out of the neighbourhood and into a brand-new house in the outskirts of town, but with the bombings and the air raids so close to the new place, they had deemed it better to wait. So, she had to settle for sharing her living space with Elsa, most of the time. There was a photograph of Hitler, cut out of a newspaper, stuck to Elsa’s wall, right next to a tiny Red Flag she’d gotten during one of the school’s parades. 

“Elsa can be scary sometimes,” Lotte admitted, bringing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs. “I hate the world we’re living in and I hate him,” she nodded at the picture on the wall.

“Shh,” said Louis. “If they hear you, they’ll hang you at the top of the Brandenburg Gate, _by your feet_.”

“It doesn’t scare me anymore, Louis.”

   And then, he felt like something had just broken inside of him. He remembered the days when one of his fantastic stories could keep Lotte awake for nights on end, always on the lookout for bloodthirsty monsters.

   But Lotte wasn’t this fragile, fearful and helpless little child anymore. And by looking at Elsa’s wall on her side of the room, by listening to Lotte, and by realizing that he and Harry were over for good, he understood that he was perhaps the only one who had never grown up. 

“What happened with you and Harry? You don’t even talk, now.”   

   He turned to her, “Life happened. We grew up. We can’t really get along, now. He’s changed a lot.”

“But you loved him.”

“He was my best friend, of course I loved him,” he said, feeling like there was trap laying just a few lines ahead of this conversation. 

   Lotte was keenly perceptive and observant when it came to little details that often went unnoticed. Her eyes were insistent when she said, “No. You _loved_ him. It was real. I’ve seen it. Everybody’s seen it. Mutti knows, too.”

“Why is _everyone_ I talk to so obsessed with Harry and I? We’re through, we’re done, can’t people get over it? _Gott,_ I hate it.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized sheepishly. “I’ll stop.”

   He ran his hand over his face, “No. _I’m_ sorry, all right? I’m going to bed.” He kissed her on the cheek. “ _Gute Nacht._ ”

   Later, that the evening, he lay awake in his own bed.

   The silence was deafening.

   He had an arm behind his head and his eyes on the ceiling, waiting for someone, or _something_ to show him the right path, to tell him what he was meant to do. The room was dark, but his eyes had quickly grown accustomed to the night. He looked around aimlessly, and he spotted one of the first paper airplanes that Harry had made. It was resting on top of a dresser, alone and proud, like a trophy. The paper was dry, it was a pale, yellow colour, and adorably asymmetrical. The aircraft’s nose was crumpled, due to a catastrophic crash on the ground that put a brutal end to its first flight. If Louis focused enough, he could still see those two kids laying on the floor right next to his bed. He remembered walking Harry through every single step with an unusual patience. There were sheets of paper and rough-drafts of makeshift airplanes everywhere that day. The room was filled with laughter, heat, light and colours all around. It smelled like apple pie, and Harry’s necklace was reflecting the sun, beaming through the window and casting the softest glow on his chocolate curly hair, on his cheeks and eyelashes. All of this was a little over ten years ago. He remembered the time when his biggest concern was to feed Harry as much as possible, so he could grow _big and strong._

   As if on cue, bittersweet memories flooded his mind – they came in every shape and form. They came in smells: his shampoo, and the smell of old wood in their classroom. It came in physical sensations: bicycle accidents and the feeling of slowly sinking into the lukewarm water of their bath. And the pretzels, and the poems and the names of the rivers of Germany they had to learn by heart, and the naps in the same bed, and their first kiss, and their hands all over each other.

   It was _torture_.

   
   He tried to clear his mind to fall asleep, but the walls were thin, and he could hear his mother’s cries across the flat. When he left his room to get a glass of water, he walked right past her. She was sitting alone at the dining room table, with her face buried in her hands and her body shaking with sobs. Louis poured himself a drink while looking at her from the corner of his eye. When Frieda noticed him, she lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes red and her cheeks streaked with black mascara.

“Go to bed,” she said, sharply.

   He gulped the last of his water, and as soon as he started leaving, she called out to him in a softer voice, “Wait. Hang on.” 

   He stopped in his tracks, leaning with his hand on the counter.

   She looked downright miserable. Something in him wanted to reach out and help, but he’d done that already, countless times over the years, and she’d pushed him away every time. He arched an eyebrow, waiting for her to speak.

   For a moment, she thought she saw her husband on her son’s face. He did look an awful lot like him sometimes – now more than ever, with all the warmth gone from his eyes. 

“Nothing.” 

   He frowned. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Go back to your room.”

   He did just that, dropping heavily onto his bed and pulling the covers up to his chin. He tossed and turned for half an hour, excessively aware of the sound of the clock ticking. He fell asleep with his mind full of premonitions and fears, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, until he was startled awake at around four in the morning after having heard loud knocks at the neighbours’ doors.

   It seemed like time had stopped.

   They weren’t knocking, actually, they were _banging_ and drumming on the doors. There were loud noises and voices right outside of the apartment, and so Louis got rid of his blankets and walked to his window. He opened the shutters and leaned over the ledge to have a look. There were three trucks lined up on the street, with soldiers and dogs roaming around. He rushed out of his room and barged out of the flat to peer over the railing. The SS were still knocking on the doors and shouting for people to open up. Some families were being evacuated, and children still dressed in their pyjamas were standing on their own landings, dishevelled and still wiping the sleep off their eyes, looking around in utter confusion. Their parents were carrying suitcases – most of them hadn’t been closed properly, and clothes were spilling out. The men were ordering the families to gather some food and supplies for several days, and they had lists in their hands.

   Louis spotted Nora, downstairs. She was wearing her nightgown and she looked nothing short of petrified.

“Peter Salzman’s missing!” An officer shouted to his men. “Where’s Peter Salzman?”

   At the same time, a woman opened her door, sticking her head outside to see what the fuss was all about. Her face was scrunched up in annoyance, and she had dozens of curling rolls in her platinum blonde hair, “Could you be _any louder_ , for the love of Christ? It’s four in the morning!”

“Watch it!” The man shouted, and she immediately stepped back inside, locking herself in.

   One of his soldiers caught Nora by the sleeve, pulling her along. “Got Nora Salzman here, Herr Kommandant. Ask her.”

“Where’s your brother?”

“He’s dead,” she lied, every part of her was trembling at the idea of these men finding her brother hidden somewhere in the house – even she had no clue where he was. “He- he died of a fever, last week.”

“You’re lying, _Schlampe_!” he struck her violently in the face. “The census was done four days ago, he was still alive, you little slut!”

   Louis’ heart was pounding at full speed, he felt like his legs had turned into stone, he couldn’t even move.

   Meanwhile, Lotte quietly padded along the hallway, then she pushed the door open and sneaked outside the apartment, promptly joining her brother. She grabbed his arm and watched the scene from the fence that was separating them from the next staircase. People were rushed down the stairs without any care, they were pushed and pulled. Children were crying in confusion, neighbours were loudly complaining about all the noise. Those who didn’t comply would be thrown on the ground and kicked relentlessly in the stomach or hit across the head with sticks and batons. If Louis wasn’t grasping the ramp so firmly, his hands would be shaking. His throat was constricted and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. But as he watched a man entering the Salzman’s apartment to look for Peter, he had a surge of strength.

“I’m Peter Salzman!” he yelled loud enough for the officer to look up. “I’m her brother, I’m…” he stopped, the words blocked in his throat as he realized that the officer was _his own father._

 “We’re going to have a talk, you and me.” He said, firmly. “Take your sister back inside.”

   Louis did nothing of it, and Lotte held on tighter to his arm. Soon enough, a man walked out of the Salzmans' place, holding a frightened Peter in his arms. He was being oddly gentle with him, as if he did not want to hurt him.

“Is this the kid?” Herr Teller inquired as soon as he spotted him.

 “ _Jawohl_ , Sturmbannführer. It's him. It says he’s six years old on the list.”

“Hand him over,” he ordered.

“Don’t you dare put your fucking hands on him, you son of a bitch!” Nora screamed at him in pure outrage.

“Take the kid outside, Schutze.”

   And on these words, Herr Teller turned to Nora and punched her hard on the face before throwing her on the floor and kicking her with his heavy boots. “ _Steh’ auf, Schlampe_! What are you doing on the floor?!”

   All the way from the stairs, Lotte started shouting at the top of her lungs, “ _Hör auf! Bitte hör auf!_ Please, please stop it!”

   As he did not seem to want to listen, Lotte let go of Louis’ arm and rushed down the stairs barefoot. She tried to put herself between Nora and her father, pulling him away by his jacket. “Please!” she begged.

   He gave Lotte a rough push until she hit the wall, and he stopped kicking Nora, leaving her to agonize and cry in pain on the ground.

“Vatti,” Lotte whispered. “Please stop, you’re going to kill her.” 

“Get back inside.” 

“Please!” 

“I said get back inside!” he screamed. 

   She ran back up in fear and hid next to Louis. He held her against him, holding her head against his chest to prevent her from having to look at this any longer. Their father resumed his assault, as if encouraged by Louis and Lotte’s cries and pleads. She sobbed against her brother’s shirt.

   After receiving a particularly violent kick under the chin, Nora fell quiet.

   The Salzman’s next door neighbour opened her own door, gasping at the spine-chilling sight on the landing. There was an indescribable hatred distorting her features as she stared at the SS Major.

“ _Gott verdamme euch_ ,” she spat. “That was a _kid_! Don’t you have any children? _Schämen Sie sich,_ shame on you!”

“What's the matter?” Herr Teller asked. _“_ Want to join them? We’ll gladly oblige you. Take her,” he commanded his men. Most of them were covering their eyes to avoid looking at the girl’s body. The rest of them were reluctant to obey: the neighbour was a pure German woman of a good family, it was nonsense. “I said, take her!”

   They obeyed at last, dragging the woman out of her apartment. She spat at Herr Teller’s feet and told him, before being dragged down the stairs, “You’ll all pay for this. I’ve stayed quiet for too long. Shame on you and on this whole country. Your soul will never know peace.”

   Herr Teller crouched down to lift Nora’s lifeless body and carried her into his arms on his way out. Louis barely had the time to see her face before she disappeared; a trickle of blood was running from the corner of her lips. He felt like he was going to be sick.

   If he wasn’t in shock earlier, Nora Salzman's death had definitely been the last knockout. He wouldn’t have realized he was crying if his body wasn’t shaking with his sobs.

   The door opened behind them; he and his sister were pulled inside by Frieda.

“What is wrong with you two?” she whispered, eyes wide with shock. “Why were you outside? What were you thinking?” 

   Louis wiped his tears with the back of his hand, convulsing, devastated. “You knew.” He simply said.

“Darling, I had no idea.”

“Yes, you did! You knew and you could’ve done something!” he shouted.

   When she spoke, her words were shaking. “He threatened me.”

“Is your own security worth more than all these people’s lives? You knew and you didn’t tell me anything! I could’ve gone out and warned people! I hope you regret this all your life. You’ve got blood on your hands and _I hate you_.”

   He flounced out of the hallway, leaving Frieda alone with Lotte, who was crying uncontrollably, haunted by what she had just seen. Louis locked himself in his room and opened the window wide, leaning out all the way. The trucks were filling up quickly, and all the neighbourhood was watching the scene unfurl from their own windows, and they all looked rather entertained, as if they had been sitting at the circus. 

_Good riddance!_

_Where do you think they’re taking them?_

_Jerusalem, probably!_

   Bursts of laughter, people beckoning each other, lamp torches flicking on. These people knew a good show when they saw one.

   Louis searched the small crowd, wiping new tears every once in a while. A soldier handed little Peter over to his father who had been anxiously waiting at the foot of a truck. Herr Teller stormed out of the building and let Nora’s body collapse on the ground, in front of a dozen of agitated people. Soon enough, there was a blood-curdling scream of pain echoing all over the streets and perhaps even the whole town. Upon seeing her dead daughter, Nora’s mother had fallen on her knees, her legs were no longer able to support her. She screamed and her voice was breaking, she was shouting the same words, over and over— _My baby, my little girl!_ _What have you done_!

   Two soldiers tried to help her up, they told her and the rest of the crowd that it was an accident, that it was not meant to happen, that they were safe and that it was nothing but a harmless procedure of relocation, that things had escalated out of their control. _Stay calm, please. Please, there is no need to panic._

   And there, among the small mass of people, Louis found Harry. He was carrying a bag and he had his head down. A soldier was holding him firmly by his sleeve, and with his other hand, he was clutching Ariel by the collar.

   Once they were both released to climb onto the last truck, Louis caught his eyes for a split second. His face was bloody all over, and Louis accurately guessed that he had not wanted to go down without a fight. There were little splatters of blood across his white cotton jumper. Harry was looking at Nora on the ground, horrified. He could barely hear the instructions being shouted out— the blood was buzzing in his ringing ears, he was fuming, completely livid. His passport was meant to be ready in two days. He would’ve left, two days from now, if things had worked out as he had planned. He could’ve burst out in rage, right there and then. Nothing could’ve compared to this deep, stinging failure.

 _Freedom_ ; he’d spent over half of his life trying to pursue it. And for some twisted reason, it always seemed to be unattainable. He looked back up to the window where Louis was still standing, held his gaze one last time, taking him in, forever wishing that things had been different.

   When everybody settled inside the trucks, a soldier stood alone behind the last one, and right before he shut the back doors, he shouted with a sneering irony, “And a very happy Hanukkah to you!”

   The vehicles surged on, turned the corner and disappeared.

   Then there was no sound. The silence that settled soon after was unlike anything they’d ever witnessed. Even the snowflakes stumbling on the snowy road, could be heard all around.

   Only a few soldiers and officers, including Herr Teller, had stayed behind, quietly smoking their cigars, sharing heartfelt laughs and patting each other on the back, right under the unforgiving orange light of the street lamps.

  

*** 

   At dawn, long, grey clouds streaked the sky.

   It was snowing.

   The air was crisp and harsh, and matched ever so perfectly the atmosphere in the streets, this early in the morning.

   Inside the buildings, the landings and stairwells seemed to have been the unfortunate victims of a hurricane.

   Fallen clothes, toys, stuffed animals, a baby pacifier, a book – All of this was strewn about on the ground, accidentally dropped by their owners during the night.

   At the end of the day, even the cruelest of men would’ve felt a sliver of compassion for Karla upon seeing her sitting at the edge of her bed, her cheeks stained with tears, holding one of Harry’s old jumpers from when he was seven and clutching it to her chest.

   At half-past seven, Louis left his room. He hadn’t slept yet – sleep was the last thing on his mind. He needed some air, and so he ended up on the empty sidewalk, where the icy wind was biting at his cheeks and fingers. He didn’t feel like crying; he’d tried, though. But his red-rimmed eyes refused to produce any tears. Over the years, he would take a habit of bottling everything in. On the outside, he looked painfully calm, but on the inside, he was _screaming_.

   Right near the sidewalk, when he looked down, he saw Nora’s lifeless body, lying face down on the muddy cobblestones of the road, with her arm twisted in a frightening position. Snow was piling up over her hair and nightgown, and it was proof that she had been thrown on the grown and left there to freeze for hours. The pale blue complexion of her skin could testify.

   A few days later, right after his birthday, Louis left Berlin.

 


	12. May 1945 - Der Reisende, der von weit her kam.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hello !!  
> as i mentioned earlier, this chapter is set at the end of the war, and the story picks up from the end of the prologue. i highly suggest you read it again before you start with this chapter. things are slowly setting into place and we're really close to the end, i hope you enjoy it!!
> 
> also disclaimer : moltenberg is a fictional town.

 The traveler who came from afar

 

   When the train came to a halt, Louis was startled awake, eyelashes fluttering open until his vision was clear again. He hadn’t realized that he’d fallen asleep on the way home. Perhaps it was the steady rocking of the train car that lulled him to sleep, or just payback for all his sleepless nights back in Frankfurt. Regardless, he was definitely awake and aware of all the noises that accompanied a new horde of travellers getting in and off. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d drifted away, but as he looked out the window, he read the station’s name on the brick wall: Moltenberg. Berlin was still ages away.

   The tall man who shared his cabin was turning his back to him. He was standing in front of him and he retrieved his suitcase from the top shelf. He slipped into his long brown trench-coat, rearranged his cap over his head and rushed out of the compartment door. When the hard corner of his suitcase hit Louis’ leg, he didn’t even to stop to apologize.

“Do you mind?” Louis huffed, visibly annoyed.

   Their eyes met for a split second, then he vanished, and it was like he had never been there in the first place.

   It took Louis maybe three seconds to snap out of it. The Stranger was young – much younger than he had thought. But what struck him immediately was the blazing, almost electric green of his eyes. He poked his head out of the door and looked both ways in hopes of catching him: he was swiftly making his way down the narrow lane. Louis sat back down in stupor. Had his faith not already been tarnished by the years, he could’ve sworn it was him.

   For obvious reasons, he had had to learn –the hard way—how to restrain himself, how to keep his ridiculous surges of hope to a minimum.

   There had been a time, a few months prior to the end of the war, where he had been stuck in this post-traumatic  _madness_ , a never-ending craze where he would see Harry everywhere he went. Each and every boy who checked a couple of Harry’s criteria became a potential Harry. Louis would lose his mind at the sight of a straight nose, kind eyes, dark curly hair and slim legs.

   In the midst of all this wishful thinking, deep inside of him, Louis knew the truth. The country’s useless efforts to conceal their own reality from the rest of the world was nothing short of shameful. He’d spent a night hidden in the dirty toilets of a motel in Frankfurt with his ear pressed against the wireless, swallowing the words as they were being spoken on the BBC at the lowest volume. The voices were heavy, but the stories that were being told were even heavier. The victims and survivors’ tales had sent chills down his spine, their words weighed a ton against his chest.

   Despite the cold, hard facts he was regularly faced with, Louis couldn’t bring himself to silence that tiny part of himself that was screaming at him to catch up with this man. He needed an excuse. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a well-defined yellow shape. He lowered his gaze and spotted the book on the bench. The Stranger had forgotten it. He read the title:  _Das_ _Abenteuer_ _des Werner_ _Quabs_ _,_ written by Hans Fallada.  He ran a finger over the damaged cover and picked up the book at last. He rose to his feet, retrieved his own suitcase and walked out of the cabin. He chased the man down the aisle until they both stepped out of the train and onto the platform. He called out to him, “Excuse me!”

   The Stranger picked up the pace; it only managed to fuel Louis’ will. He ran after him, thinking to himself that all the reasons were valid to delay his arrival in Berlin. The Bahnhof was crowded, swarming with busy, hard-faced, tight-lipped travellers. Louis held the book tightly against his chest and walked quickly, pushing and shoving people off without bothering to apologize. _Eyes on the prize._  

“You there! Brown coat!” he yelled, hoping the stranger would finally stop running. Half a dozen people turned around – it must be said that The Stranger’s fashion style was nothing out of the ordinary. He blended into the dullest crowd with a bewildering ease, and if Louis blinked for too long, he knew he would lose sight of him.

   When Louis was finally close enough to pat him on the shoulder, he was stopped by a desperate looking woman who’d practically popped out of nowhere, right before him, with her eyes full of tears, full of naivety, full of hope – a hope that had no place in that time of the year. She was showing him a small poster with a black and white photograph of a very handsome young man in his early twenties. “Bitte. Bitte… have you seen this man?” She was clutching onto a missing person’s notice. “My husband. His name is Markus. Maybe you were in the same division, just please, tell me you’ve seen him.” 

“I haven’t fought in the war. I’m sorry.” He almost added _I’ve lost somebody, too._ He skirted around her and went on his way. The Stranger had vanished again. Louis spun around on his heels, searching through the crowd, wild-eyed and breathless. He couldn’t be far, now… And there he was, standing in front of a wicket. Tall, brown coat, tweed cap. He rushed to his side, his heart pounding against his ribs. “Excuse me,” he said. “You’ve left this on the train, I reckon.” 

   The man turned to face him with a deep scowl. It wasn’t Harry. He was at least thirty years old, with green eyes, granted, but it wasn’t him. He sized Louis up, and then he frowned at the yellow book. “Not mine.”

   Louis' shoulders slumped as he apologized in a hushed, weak voice, “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.” He sauntered away, pacing around the station with a heavy heart. He shoved the tiny book in his coat pocket and he felt like he’d just been brought back to Earth in the most crushing, devastating way. Who could blame him for getting his hopes up? He didn’t see how he could possibly get over Harry’s death without getting any sort of closure. And perhaps the rawest, most powerful kind of closure would have been  _seeing_  Harry’s corpse in a ditch, somewhere. 

   The train shuddered to a start, the pistons hissed and the smoke filled the platform. Louis dropped his suitcase at his feet, burying his fingers in his hair and feeling his throat tightening up. He faced the sky, a sad, dull grey behind the high dome-shaped transparent ceilings. The stench of smoke and cigarettes lingered everywhere and the rain was drumming against the glass. There were hundreds of missing persons notices stuck on the walls of the station; some of them flapped around with the wind, barely sticking on the board with a wobbly pin, and some ended up on the dirty floor. The faces of those who’d disappeared in the war – men, women and children, were being recklessly stepped on, left with dusty footprints across their photograph. It was _morbid_.

   As soon as he pulled himself together, he spotted someone rushing toward the exit. Once again, brown coat, tweed cap. He didn’t think twice, and he _sprinted_ to the doors.

   Hope was a devastating feeling when it turned out to be false – but he couldn’t care less.

   He caught up with The Stranger from the Train, put his hand on his shoulder and forced him to turn around.

   Then, nothing. Their eyes met, and none of them dared to blink.

   Blue on Green, the way it should’ve always been.

   Around them, all the commotion of the station followed its course; travellers walked in and out, dodging them, ignoring them, sometimes bumping into them. But they both remained perfectly still for what seemed like an eternity. When Louis spoke, his voice was so strangled that the words came out in an almost inaudible whisper. “Harry.”

   The Stranger stared at him with an off-putting intensity, his eyes lingering on Louis’ thick beard. He didn’t even have the chance to speak; Louis pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

   He hung back for a while, then he returned his hug. Louis’ fingers clung to the back of his coat, holding on to him as he’d hold on to a lifeline in the middle of the ocean. Harry had grown so tall, Louis couldn’t bury his chin in that space between his shoulder and his neck. And so, he just pressed his face against his chest, inhaling this brand-new, unfamiliar smell of his. His mind was racing a million miles an hour. He was there – he could feel him, he could touch him, he could see him. A loud camera shutter went off somewhere near them, and there was a bright flash for a split second. Some people were cheering and clapping for them, as they always did whenever two people were reunited – often out of pure luck.

   A few seconds had ticked by, and Louis refused to let him go, lest he disappear again. It was too good to be true. Anytime now, he would be waking up in the middle of his bed with stabbing pains in his chest.

   But as it turned out, Louis did not wake up this time.

***

  

   First came the taxi. They had taken seats in the back, right next to one another.

“Almost didn’t recognize you with that thick beard of yours,” were Harry’s first words to him.

   He had smiled at him. _And his eyes_ …Three and a half years hadn’t gotten the best of them. They were still filled with immeasurable tenderness – it faded away whenever he’d look outside the window, where the droplets of water were gliding over the glass, but the harshness would melt down as soon as he laid eyes on Louis. Nothing had changed. Harry had always been a little older in his mind than he really was. He’d been forced to grow up quickly, and now he looked at the world with a contemptuous eye. Nothing to marvel about – he’d been angry for three and a half years.

   Second, came the House.  Louis was shocked to find out that Harry lived somewhere around there. The run-of-the-mill house at 14, Talstraße was identical to the house next to it, and the one next to it, and so on, until the end of the street. By the time they got there, the sky had turned a dark grey, breaking down on them in a flood that was nothing short of biblical. They made their way through the tall, unkempt lawn of the front yard.  

   The inside was fully furnished, to Louis’ surprise. The place was quite obviously past its prime: the floorboards creaked under their weight, and the stairs were covered with a generous layer of dust. It was clear that nobody was currently tending to the house. The furniture was covered with white sheets: chairs, sofas, tables and settees were hidden under linen fabric. Harry pulled on one of them, revealing a dark brown leather sofa. He folded the sheet, and went on to the next piece of furniture while Louis was still exploring the place.

“Is this your house, then?” he asked, opening a small cupboard in the kitchen.

“I’ve never set foot here.” 

“Hm,” he frowned in confusion, with his hand on the cabinet's door. He didn’t live there, but he had the key. Harry’s behaviour was becoming weirder as time went by. He answered questions in small sentences that never exceeded ten words, and he only ever spoke if he was being asked something. There was an obvious uneasiness that had settled between them, he’d noticed it straight away. He glanced at the main room from the kitchen, and he saw Harry leaning against an empty white wall, staring at the floor. His eyes looked dead and glazed over. It seemed like he was reconsidering every decision he’d made since that morning – including bringing Louis back here. A shiver ran down Louis' spine. He looked like a ghost. For a second, he started doubting his existence. 

   Harry could’ve said whatever he wanted. He could’ve looked at him with that signature tenderness in his eyes, he could’ve held his hands and said “I’ve missed you so much”, and it wouldn’t even sound right. Something was terribly wrong. His unspoken words were hanging in the air, where nobody could see them. 

   Louis closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the old wooden cupboard, “Harry, whose house is this?”

   It was a while before he replied, “The Walters’.”

“And who are the Walters?” he asked, turning on the kitchen tap. At first, nothing came out. Then, there was a click, and brown water spluttered out unevenly in the sink, slowly clearing up. He shut it off.

“I’m going grocery shopping,” said Harry, decisively. It was the last thing Louis heard before he shut the front door. The thought of staying alone in this house didn’t appeal to him at all. The Walters’ place, whoever they were, was bleak, and smelled of old wood and mothballs. Louis climbed upstairs, the soles of his beige suede shoes leaving their print on the dusty stairs. His fingers slid against the crumbling wallpaper, then he wiped them on his trousers when he reached the top. There was a bathroom with white and turquoise tiles. The bathtub was lined with a muted grey substance. The rust and limestone had left a trace under the tap and the window had been condemned with a couple of wooden boards that crisscrossed each other. The master bedroom consisted in a large bed and a window overlooking the street. Louis shamelessly ventured in. He had a look around, then he dropped down on the bed with a sigh. He supposed he could rest his eyes for a minute. He knew he'd most likely jolt awake if he heard the front door.

   But his eyes remained closed, and he didn’t wake until three hours later, when the whole room was plunged into darkness. He woke up with his wet hair sticking to the back of his neck, his cheek burning red, all wrinkly from the traces on the pillow. Someone had tucked him in with a woollen blanket, and his shoes were neatly stored next to the door. When he took a closer look, he realized that his watch had been placed on top of the bedside table. Even his own mother didn't put this much care toward him.

   The rain hadn’t stopped. It was crackling against the window where he could see blurred halos around the cars’ headlights in the street. Louis stretched on the bed, letting out a low grunt as he shifted his weight onto his elbow. He clung vainly to the fleeting memories of his last dream.

   It started with his father. In the dream, Louis was around five. He was sitting on his shoulders and they were watching a horse race – he used to love races. He enjoyed placing bets, too. In the dream, he had bet on the smaller horse, even though his father was trying to convince him to pick the black stallion. He had won his bet against all odds. The dream wasn’t unlike his early memories of his father. All of that of course, was before the Krach. It had been a turning point in his father’s life. The rise of Hitler had given him a chance to become someone again. Hitler might’ve been responsible for the slaughter of millions, nevertheless, he’d restored the economy, he had eradicated unemployment in Germany, and he had turned the country into a formidable empire that took the Allies years to destroy. _There_ was a man to admire, if you were on the edge of despair, with an empty stomach and an ever-growing family to support.

   Upon learning his father’s death by suicide, Louis had felt a strange surge of relief. A sigh of satisfaction, an internal liberation, if you will.

   He stood up, taking the blanket with him. He ran a hand down his face, his beard prickling his palm.  

   Harry.

   What were the odds? It was some twisted turn of fate, a sick joke from the universe, too good to be true, almost laughable. _So, they had been sitting next to each other on the train this whole time? Come on_. 

   Louis bent down and picked up his discarded shoes, cautiously making his way down the stairs. They were no longer dusty. They’d been thoroughly cleaned, but the wood still looked dull and dry, and creaked under his feet. “Harry?”

   God knows that if he had not heard that little grunt from downstairs, he would’ve panicked. In the living room, Harry was pushing a heavy sofa against the wall. The room felt more spacious, he’d moved the furniture around and he’d cleaned and dusted off everything. There was an oil lamp burning, set upon a small coffee table, casting its glowing light all around. Harry straightened up and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then he leaned against the sofa’s armrest. He sniffed once, holding back a sneeze.

“What’s all of this?”

“Had to clean up. I know you’ve got asthma and dust isn't good for you. Sleep well?”

   He had that weary tone; his voice was slurred and thicker than usual, like a heaviness deep in his throat. Louis wouldn’t be surprised if he was slightly drunk. “I did.”

“Did I wake you up?”

 “No.”

“All right,” he shrugged. “I bought eggs. And bread. And I found some vegetables, and… And logs of wood, too, but… Actually, I forgot the wood.” And with that, he left through the front door and stepped into the pouring rain with no coat. He waltzed back in after five minutes and shut the door with his foot. He’d borrowed some wood from the neighbours and he was now carrying a heavy pile of logs, his wet hair stuck to his pale, cold face. His arms were tensed up, clammy skin stretching over his hard biceps as he carried the pile to the hearth. Louis noted how strong and muscular he was, his shoulders were broader and he knew his back _had_ to be ripped _,_ he could see it through his wet black shirt clinging to his skin.

“Come and sit down,” he pointed to the sofa he’d placed in front of the fireplace. “Then we’ll talk.”

   Louis complied and took a seat, watching in wonder as Harry tried to light a fire. He had two newspapers with him, with a rustic black iron poker, and a small pack of matches. He obviously knew what he was doing. After a short while, the fire crackled to life. The room started to warm up and Harry threw in some of the thinnest logs, pushing them further into the hearth with the poker.

“We’ll have running water in the bathroom tomorrow,” Harry said, settling down on the ground, right near the fire. “I’ll fix it in the morning. Nothing’s working for now, I’m sorry.”

“There’s water in the tap. In the kitchen.”

“Yeah,” Harry cringed. “I wouldn’t drink from that, though.”

   The flames’ dancing light flickered over the stunning features of his face, casting the shadow of his eyelashes over his cheeks. He looked older for some reason. He blinked more often than usual, his hair was shorter, the edges of his face were somehow sharper than ever. He looked way past the age of twenty one. All these tiny details were convincing enough for Louis. This was real, he wasn't dreaming.

“Where should I start...”

“How come you’re… here?” Louis asked softly, pulling the blanket over his body.

“Ran away. Papa became ill after a week, he knew he wouldn’t make it, but he helped me. And I owe him everything. He’s always pulled us out of trouble, even back in Berlin.”

“So then, is he…”

“Dead,” he cut him with a detached tone. “He’s dead. Everybody you saw that night, everybody, they’re all dead. Men, women and children, too. They burn the bodies. I’ve realized that, when I was outside. It'd started to snow. Except the snow wasn’t cold, it wasn’t melting, and it was only snowing _inside_ the fences. Thought it was odd, until Papa pointed out that they weren't snowflakes. They were ashes. And the smoke is so black, you can see it from miles away.”

   Louis closed his eyes – the fact that Harry could just spill this out so flatly, the fact that he remained entirely unfazed by the monstrosity of it all just went to show how he’d been damaged beyond repair. All these years, Louis had proudly owned the unofficial prize of Best Horror Storyteller. And everybody could testify – especially Lotte. Harry had just snatched it away with the blink of an eye. He was tearing apart some pages from a newspaper, crumpling them and throwing them inside the hearth to feed the hissing fire.

   He continued the story.

   The fact that Harry was a man, that he was in remotely good health and able to carry out very demanding physical work had saved his life. It had also saved him a few weeks and some precious time to plan his escape with his father, who also had a keen eye for details. As he was on clothes duty, among many other official tasks, Ariel had become familiar with the place and all its loopholes and technicalities.

   Harry had only cried twice.

   The first time was when they had shaved his head. He’d broken out in silent tears upon seeing the chunks of hair falling to the ground. It did sound trivial on second thought, but he loved his hair very much. A pale, frail woman, whose head was covered with a scarf, had stroked his shoulder ever so softly and had told him, “It’s only hair. It grows back, you know.”

   The second time was when he’d seen Ariel die right in front of him, after being shot down by an officer who complained that he was too slow at work. Ariel had been ill for a while and was getting weaker by the day. Despite that, he’d taken it upon himself to keep working. He knew that as soon as he would stop being useful, his life would be over. And he was right.

   With his face drowning in tears, with his trembling, weak limbs, and with his heart torn into shreds, Harry had been forced to drag his dead body over to the nearest pit, lest he know the same fate. Harry had escaped that very night. He learned, much later, that he was neither the first nor the only one to have run away. The plan consisted of a smart identity theft, a crafty murder among the Gestapo officers, a couple of lies and a little bit of luck. Escaping, he said, had been the easy part of it all. He found himself completely and utterly lost once he’d managed to run far enough to avoid being shot. He had to live with the haunting images of an officer he’d stabbed to death with a pair of scissors.

“If they realize you’re missing,” he said, “they’ll track you and hunt you down for _three days and three nights._ And only then, they give up.”

   It was the dead of winter, and he’d had to walk in the cold for days on end. He had lost track of time, and he had been wavering on the edge of delirium more than once – he remembered thinking that he longed to be back at The Camp and that he regretted ever leaving. He knew he’d be instantly killed if he was spotted there, but he also knew that if he failed to find a warmer place, he’d meet his death in the middle of the frosted desert that was the countryside. One night, he had laid down on the hard, frozen ground, near a tree stump, and he remembered just staring at the starry sky and slowly giving in to death’s comforting embrace. He remembered not feeling any pain for a while, like his fingers hadn’t turned completely white, like his skin wasn’t peeling off from the cold, like his frostbites had healed themselves. Suddenly, breathing was no longer so difficult – it’d stopped burning his throat and lungs. In reality, it was all due to the fact that he wasn’t breathing anymore. The agony he’d found himself in had gently given way to happy thoughts, and a reassuring warm feeling had washed all over him. He had seen his mother’s face – the one he would so often forget about. He had relived his eighth birthday; perhaps the happiest memory he’d kept so far. He’d known that these visions were nothing but peaceful, reassuring illusions. Lies. He knew he was dying, and he couldn’t allow it. 

   He had taken a deep breath. It’d hurt, but he knew it was the excruciating price to pay to be able to live. He’d gotten to his feet with an unlikely strain, and had started walking again, for as long as his unexpected gain of resolution allowed him to – which was for about an hour and a half. 

   As he neared the end of his sudden adrenaline rush, he'd spotted a farmhouse up on a hill. There was a light flickering behind a window, a beam of hope. He’d ended up on their front porch, out of breath, exhausted, freezing cold, hungry and thirsty. Had Hansel Walter not opened the door, he would have collapsed there without a doubt.  

   Harry had begged to be let in with every last shred of dignity he owned. He’d dropped to his knees with his frostbitten hands joined in a prayer motion.

   Herr Walter had thought about shutting the door and going back in, more than once. He’d nearly shouted at him to leave his front porch as he didn’t want any problems with the Gestapo. They used to search his house on a regular basis, and sheltering an escapee would have meant signing the entire family’s death warrant.  

   But Harry’s humble stance had appealed to his humanity. Hansel's heart had ached upon seeing a man resorting to such a request. He’d let him in, and let his wife give him the care and attention he needed. She’d warmed him up in front of the fireplace, and she’d given him a scalding serving of that night’s supper – lentil soup. She’d taken care of his blisters and frostbites, while Herr Walter sat there in mild shock, muttering to himself and cursing out loud. It was a miracle that the boy had even had the strength to drag himself up to his porch, he was just skin and bones. 

   It had been his first day with the Walters. They had left Moltenberg as soon as news of the war broke out and moved out to live in the country. Herr Walter had been on the Gestapo’s black list for ages, as he was known for always siding with Jew folks and firmly refusing to send his application form to the NSDAP. _Screw all of you, filthy Schweine! Geh’ scheissen!_ he’d shouted at the officer who showed up to his door in Moltenberg, at the end of 1938.

   Now, they lived on a farm. To this day, Harry was still unsure as to where it was located precisely. He just knew he’d walked and walked until his legs couldn’t support him. The woman, Ada Walter, very obviously seemed to wear the pants in that house. She liked to boss people around. She was pale and bony, with shiny auburn hair neatly tied into the smallest of buns at all times. Her black, thick-rimmed glasses and her lips pressed in a tight line reminded Harry of the schoolmarm at the Berlin-Pankow Jewish orphanage. She had looked after him the first few days when Harry was too weak to take care of himself. They had to face the facts: Harry had nowhere to go. He’d heard Frau Walter whispering to her husband one quiet morning. She’d said that Harry was a boy, not a piece of meat to throw at those dogs outside. 

   Hansel Walter was, among a variety of other things, a very opportunist, demanding man. He only let Harry stay under a list of strict conditions. He was to work for each one of his meals. He’d very clearly stated that his house was no motel. Ada had agreed. They were keeping him under their roof out of pure Christian charity, and the only thing they owed him was protection. They were painfully aware of the risks it entailed, but the little humanity that persisted around the region seemed to find itself within the withered hearts of this peculiar couple.

   Over the course of the next few months following their new refugee’s arrival, Herr Walter exploited Harry every day until he’d drop with exhaustion, come the end of the workday. Tending to the farm was no easy task and Harry was a city boy, he was used to a convenient, practical and effortless life. He’d help with the seeding in the spring, he’d take care of the cattle during the summer, and the harvest had to be done by the end of fall, right before the frost would set on the ground. In the winter, he’d chop off wood for the fireplace in the nearest forest. He’d spend hours swinging an axe across thick barks. He was also on water duty; he'd fetch the water from the well every morning. His workdays started at 6 o’clock sharp and lasted anywhere from twelve to fifteen hours.

   In the cold months, when food was scarce, they mostly ate stale bread, liquid porridge, and oat bran cakes. 

   The previous summer, Hansel had ordered him to help him renovate the entire property as he was planning to sell the farm and return to town at the end of the war. The place was decrepit and falling into ruins. A real estate agent, a close friend of Hansel, had burst out laughing when the family had asked him how much the farm was worth in the market. The barn’s roof had to be rebuilt, the paintwork was weak, the cows’ stables were falling apart. Of course, Harry had done most of the work while Hansel was resting on a rocking chair, up on the porch, yelling orders at him.

“They were rough on me,” he said. “But they were good people. One day, three men came to the house, and they were looking for me. Somebody had probably seen me and tipped them off. They came up and they said that according to the rumours, the Walters were sheltering an enemy of the State. It was like this obscure game of hide-and-seek; the purpose was not to get killed.”

“Where’d they hide you?”

“Underneath their floorboards. I reckon I’d stopped breathing for a good ten minutes. They said that if they found me, they’d shoot me straight away. And they’d arrest the Walters.”

“That’s crazy.”

“They didn’t find me, but Herr Walter was furious when they left. He said I wasn’t careful enough.”

   Louis shifted on his seat and he smiled a little. “He sounds like one hell of a man.”

   Harry shrugged and moved backwards, pressing his back against the bottom of the sofa. “He was a good man,” he pressed. “He just had a temper. I owe my life to these people. I wish them nothing but good.” He tore off another page of the newspaper; it had a photograph of Hitler on it, and the article recounted his alleged suicide – he’d shot himself, and his wife Eva had ended her life as well with a smart dose of poison. Louis was at a loss for words. Harry had narrated his past few years with breathtaking calm, and with a strange humility, as though he didn’t fully realize the true feat of his story. Escaping, and surviving. He made it sound easy. But he pressed, once again, that the only hero of the story was his father. He refused to take any credit for what Ariel had achieved. Harry hadn’t even tried to save anybody, on the contrary, _he’d killed a man_. And the guilt weighed on his chest like three thousand pounds of lead.

“My time at the Walters was only bearable thanks to Lili.”

   A deep scowl appeared on Louis’ face. “Who?”

   Harry glanced over his shoulders – their eyes met again, for the first time in about half an hour. “Lili,” he repeated. “their daughter. Haven’t I mentioned her?”

   Louis gulped quietly, and he shook his head no.

“It might’ve slipped my mind, then. I’ve got loads to tell you,” he straightened up and stood on his feet. “Hang on.” He left the room and climbed the stairs. Louis could hear him rummaging somewhere up there, then he saw him rushing down, holding some pictures in his hands. He plopped down next to Louis on the sofa, resting his arm on the back, careful not to touch him. “Here, look. This is Hansel Walter, and his wife Ada.” 

   Louis intentionally leaned closer. He could feel the warmth radiating off his body, and he wished he could just hold him – or be held, for that matter. “They look very strict.”

“Oh, they were. They had to be. They were the quiet part of the resistance. Weren’t afraid of anybody.” He flipped through the photographs, and then he let out a soft sigh. “There’s Lili. That was her, in January this year.”

   He handed it to Louis so he could see better. Louis just stared at her. She looked a little younger than them – nineteen at most. She was short, and she had long, blonde hair that reached all the way to her elbows. Light eyes, too. He couldn’t tell exactly which colour; the photograph was black and white. She was smiling and there was a visible gap between her two front teeth. He felt sick all of a sudden. He slipped it back to Harry and asked him, “Do you think she’s pretty?”

   Harry replied with a humourless laugh, “Pretty? I think she's _beautiful_. We dated for three years, so it only makes sense.  She was sixteen when I got there, and when her mother was busy, she’d help me eat and wash up, she’d read for me, too. She likes mythology, she taught me all about Ovid's works. And her favourite tale just so happens to be Icarus. Funny, isn't it? Once, she told me she loved me."

   Somehow, the feeling of his retinas getting burnt from staring at the flames for too long was far less strenuous than the resentment seeping through Louis' veins. "Did _you_ love her?" he asked, flatly.

   It was a long, long while before Harry could craft his answer. "Lili was very dear to me. I mostly like that she took such good care of me."

   Harry could’ve punched him straight in the face and it wouldn’t have made the slightest difference. Three years. _Three years._ Of course, she loved him. Who didn’t love Harry once they got to know him? And he was so terribly attractive, it would’ve been a downright miracle if she hadn’t fallen for him.

   When Harry was working on the fields, ploughing the earth or chopping wood, shirtless under the scorching sun of the summer of 1942, she’d watch him in complete awe from the window. She’d helped him bathe on his first days and she’d listened to him at night, when he told her all about his life and his fears and regrets and dreams. _Of course_.

“We had to hide, obviously,” he scoffed. “I’m never allowed to love out loud.”

   The past was finally emerging. Not like a pleasant memory they’d recall around the hearth, but rather like a manhole overflowing in the middle of the street. Louis was on fire, and Harry was having such a thrill pouring a barrel of gasoline all over him.

“I’ve told her about you, of course. Told her you were the best friend I’ve ever had. It wasn’t complicated with her,” he said, stroking his chin. “We had to be careful. I mean, _I_ had to be careful. Could you imagine the disaster it would’ve caused if she ended up pregnant? They would’ve sent me right back where I came from.”

   When he laughed, Louis felt compelled to do the same. His sounded so terribly fake, but he couldn’t help it. There was nothing funny about it, he felt like he’d just been struck across the chest. His throat closed tighter, the words like a hand around his neck.

“Herr Walter was very protective of Lili,” he added. “I could feel he didn’t want me around her too much. So, whenever we’d want to meet up, we’d do it at night. She’d come up to my attic. I’d lived there for nearly three years. And, well, you know. We just… we had fun. Then she’d go back to her room in the early morning.”

“Right,” Louis said, clearing his throat. “Have you split up, then?”

   There was a short moment of silence, and Harry threw a small twig at the fire, aiming perfectly into the hearth. “Yes,” he said, sinking into the sofa. “A week ago, we were still okay. I’ve messed things up, as usual. The war was over, and I wanted to see what the world looked like. Lili wanted to come, and her parents refused. She begged me to stay and I said no… I said I wanted to travel, I wanted… I _needed_ to know what it felt like to be free. We couldn’t get along, and so we ended it.”

   Evidently, Lili had likely been another blip in Harry’s life. Another person he’d let down for the sake of his lifelong dream. But he wasn’t made to be held back with chains – people just took an awfully long time to understand that. Louis found himself feeling an unhealthy hatred for the girl he had only seen in pictures. He despised her and he didn’t even know her. She’d held onto Harry’s heart for three years, while Louis was suffering from his absence. But despite it all, he also had a bad hunch.  Harry _had_ to have been lying to him. He hadn’t only left the Walters’ farm to discover the world.

   So, even if he had associated Harry's name with the prospect of a journey around the world for many, many years, he just couldn’t buy it. He’d been reading between the lines, and all that he could see was a jaded man, angry at the world, driven by a sickly pessimism.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Harry pointed out and gave him an accusing nod. “Don’t you want to talk?”

“I’m tired,” Louis pleaded quietly. “I’m just tired, I’m sorry.”

“Does it bother you that I dated this girl?”

   Louis gave him a faint, weak smile. “Absolutely not,” he lied, fingers scratching his beard. “It’s none of my business. We had ended things on our part. It's all water under the bridge and all that. I'm tired, is all.”

   Harry shuffled closer, shifting his entire body toward him. “Allow me to doubt it. You must’ve slept at least ten hours, just today. Besides, you’ve just woken up from a nap. So let’s talk. Tell me about you, Louis.”

   He had terribly missed hearing him pronouncing his name. It sounded beautiful, when he said it. Though, now, he felt ashamed. No matter what he told him, nothing could compare to the ordeal that Harry had to go through.

“Have you fought in the war?” Harry prompted him, with a flicker of eagerness in his eyes -- he looked more awake.

 “No. Didn’t pass medical inspection because of my asthma. They said they didn’t want a soldier who could choke on his own in the middle of a battlefield. So, I was in the reserve until last week. They could’ve called me up anytime and send me off anywhere in the world. And… and I didn’t want to go. If they ever did, I know for a fact that I would’ve fled.”

   Harry quietly hummed and nodded along. “That reminds me,” he said. “What were you doing on the train? Where did you come from?”

“Frankfurt. I went to Goethe. I lived with my aunt first, then I moved out, and...”

“Goethe?” he raised his eyebrows, truly impressed. “How’d you get in there? What were you studying?”

“Law and sociology…mainly. It was all right.” 

“Right,” he nodded again. “Where were you going this morning, then?”

“Berlin. My father shot himself. He knew we were losing the war.”

   Harry just smiled. “What a great man. My deepest condolences.”

   Louis let out a breath of laughter and whispered, “Go on, now.”

“It’s tragic.” 

“Will you go back to Berlin?” 

   Harry pursed his lips and shook his head. “No. No, never. What good would it do me? There’s nothing for me in Berlin. There was never anything for me over there. I’ve never loved the place. You know, I was taken there against my will, after my mum died, because that was where the Jewish orphanage was. There was nothing suitable for a six-year-old orphan like me in Rosenheim.” 

   The rain was stuttering against the windows as Louis rested his head against the cushion, revelling in the peaceful silence that had settled all of a sudden. He allowed himself to just sit back and watch him. Harry’s hair was getting dry; some of the strands were still damp, and they were curling up in lovely ringlets. He used to have little spots of acne on his face when he was younger. Now his skin was clearer than ever, and Louis wanted to kiss every square inch of it.

 “The Walters gave me a little money, and told me I could stay here until they found a buyer for the farm, and then… Well, hopefully I’ll have turned my life around, by then. I just couldn’t stay there, and Herr Walter didn’t want me wandering around, broke and homeless.”

“Is that what you want, then? Do you want to live alone?”

“Yes. Alone. There’s nothing wrong with being alone. I don’t need anybody,” he’d muttered that last sentence. “When I sort myself out, I’ll leave, I’ll travel, I’ll work odd jobs on the move, I’ll manage.”

   It sounded like he was trying to convince himself, but his insecurity showed through the uncertain tone of his voice. Louis took a mental note of that, but the words in themselves were already gnawing their way into his heart. He’d foolishly thought that Harry would want to fix things and make up for all the time they had lost. But he didn’t seem to care. He had lived his own little adventure, he’d found love, real love, with a girl, and he was going to see the world.

   He was free. And there was no room for Louis in his new life.

   The room felt cramped all of a sudden, the air was getting scarce. There were little numbers tattooed in black ink, inside of his arm. _14068._ The skin surrounding the numbers was all red and horribly scarred, it was as though he'd scratched at it with his fingernails until he drew blood. 

   After a long stretch of time, Harry found something else to wonder about. “Was there someone else? I’ve told you the truth, as far as I’m concerned. So, you can tell me everything.”

“Yes,” said Louis, straightening up to gauge his reaction. “There was someone else, actually. A Frenchman. An ex-soldier I’ve met last year, after the liberation of Paris.”

   Harry’s eye twitched involuntarily. “Ex-soldier?” 

“Almost died in Dunkirk. He withdrew after the battle. His name’s Victor. He’s twenty-six…Twenty-seven, now. Today’s his birthday.”

“Twenty-seven?” Harry chuckled softly. “Is that how you like them, then?... Sorry. Go on.”

   Louis couldn’t contain his smile. “He barely spoke German. The basics, just enough to get by. It wasn’t really serious. I remember telling him that I was bored with him. Then I suppose he got scared, he dropped the L bomb on me.” 

“Did he, now…”

“He told me he loved me, with his shitty accent. I could tell he didn’t really mean it. He probably just wanted to say _Ich liebe dich_ to someone, just to know what it feels like. Whatever. He was harmless. We’ve split up.” 

“What was he doing in Germany?” 

“No idea. His father lived in Frankfurt and he owned an art gallery, there. He was okay with Victor liking men, which I thought was weird at first, but then again the man wrote a thesis on Rimbaud and Verlaine. Sounds fair, if you ask me. Victor grew up in Strasbourg, it's a lovely place, I’m not sure why he’d ever want to leave France to come to this godforsaken land. But he did. And... I’m glad.” 

   Louis had lied to him, shamelessly. He did date Victor, but the story he’d just told was so far from being the truth. He wasn’t going to confess to him that he’d been stuck in a toxic, abusive relationship. Victor had treated him like a possession for months on end, locking him up in his apartment when Louis didn’t have class. He’d roughed him up to the point of hitting him, more than once. 

   Although, at first, Victor was a strikingly charming man. For a few weeks, Louis was under the impression that he’d found the ladder he needed to get out of the ditch he’d fallen into. After he left Berlin, he settled at his aunt’s house and started attending classes at Goethe. Then, when things didn’t seem to get better for him, he started drinking excessively. He would get home drunk more often than not. It was upsetting his little cousins, so his aunt was quick to find him some other place to stay, where he could sabotage himself without bothering anybody. He met Victor on a drunken night at a bar. The ex-soldier was hanging out in a sailor uniform, surrounded by the lousy, boisterous people he called his friends. Victor took him home, and they spent the night together. One night was enough for Louis to get so attached that he felt like he couldn’t even breathe if Victor wasn’t around to hold him. He quickly grew obsessed with the feeling of Victor's hands all over his body.

   Victor did seem to like him at first. Turned out, he only liked that Louis was weak, and so completely out of his mind for months. He would take him on little nights out in town, he’d drive him around in his car, and he was nothing less than an athlete in bed. He taught him things that would have never even occurred to him. He also took the time to teach him the basics in French. He’d go about it with an impressive amount of patience and delicacy, until Louis could carry out basic conversations with him.

   But then, the novelty wore off and Victor’s worst side was quick to resurface – his possessiveness, his excessive jealousy, his bursts of anger, his gaslighting tendencies, and his frustrating need to have the last word. Every time he slipped and went too far, Victor apologized with expensive gifts; watches, clothes, perfume, expensive restaurants. He had pulled out all the stops, he had moved heaven and earth to get Louis to stay. And thankfully, Louis _didn’t_ stay. He’d left Victor’s flat in the middle of the night and spent the rest of his journey in Frankfurt in three different motels, so Victor couldn’t find him.

   Upon hearing the watered-down version of Louis and Victor’s story, Harry tensed up. He tried to remain subtle, but his clenched jaw gave him away. The corner of his mouth lifted in a tiny smirk, he let out a nervous laugh, and tried to lighten up. “That’s nice. Tell me something in French.”

“ _Tu caches quelque chose_ ,” said Louis, in a near-perfect French. _You’re hiding something_. 

“That was beautiful. It really is the language of love. Look at us, sounding like brutes with our harsh words… Anyway… Listen. I’m happy for you. I’m happy you’ve managed to move on. And I’m so sorry that it’s over… It’s a shame, really. Tell me now. Does that mean you’re…” he paused, weighing his next words. “Does that mean you’re gay, then?”

"...I suppose, yes."

“Good for you. I couldn't, to be fair. We could still get away with it when we were younger but... we're adults, now. It's just not practical. I honestly thought you'd grow out of it.”

 _Good for you._ Had Louis been braver, right then, he would’ve told him that just because he’d been fucking a farmer’s daughter for three years didn’t mean that it cancelled their years together. His heart felt heavier in his chest. “I’ve missed you so much.” His words were strained, and he tried very hard not to break down in front of him. _Harry doesn’t care,_ he reminded himself, _he doesn’t care_.

“Same.” He simply said, avoiding his eyes.

“I know that’s not true. Stop pretending, it hurts.” 

“Right,” he ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling them and combing them backwards. “It’s getting late.”

 “Please, tell me what’s wrong.”

   Harry’s smile was so far from being sincere, Louis wasn’t sure why he was even bothering. He looked nervous, there was a veil of apprehension in front of his eyes, and he wished he could just pierce right through it and work it all out. “I’m fine, Louis. You know what? I’ll cook us something, we’ll eat and then we’ll go to bed. I believe we’ve told each other everything that needed to be told. How long are you planning to stay here?’

“Not going to lie, I don’t feel like staying any longer. I know you don’t want me here.”

   Harry looked him in the eye, repressing a vicious smile. The tip of his tongue was pointing against the inside of his cheek. He looked fierce, and weirdly defiant. “It’s raining. You should stay tonight. I’ll buy you a ticket for Berlin tomorrow morning, if you’d like. After all, it’s my fault if you’re here.”

   Had Louis paid more attention, he would've known that the look in his eyes was a silent cry for help. _Don't leave me. This won't end well for me._

   Supper that night consisted of black beans baked on a stove with tap water he’d put to boil earlier, spread over whole-wheat toast he’d sliced beforehand. They ate it over the small kitchen table, lit in the dim glow of a half-melted candle. They didn’t exchange one word, didn’t even dare to look each other in the eye during the meal.

   Once he was done eating, Louis locked himself in the bathroom, and as soon as he pushed the lock and found himself in near total darkness, he burst into tears. He pressed his hand to his mouth and tried to make as little noise as possible; he was shaking and his tears were running down his cheeks and over his hand. He thought it was strange – he didn’t know he had that much agony in him. He’d broken down like this only once. It was after he had run away from Victor and taken refuge in the nearest motel. He’d cried all night, but the next morning, it was as though nothing had happened. As soon as he was free from Victor, Harry had crawled back into his mind – he supposed that was the reason for his breakdown.

   Today, though, things were different.

   His hands firmly held onto the sides of the sink as he tried to catch his breath, holding back his sobs as best as he could.

   He tried to make sense of what had happened. Why couldn’t they just get along?  

   It had slipped his mind for a few years; he’d been so busy destroying himself he’d forgotten just how horrible he’d been to Harry when they were seventeen: selfish and entitled and so full of himself. He’d forgotten that Harry hated what he’d become by the end of their relationship. He’d hidden it quite well until the day they fell apart. Three and a half years clearly hadn’t settled things. And them being reunited by sheer coincidence didn’t matter the slightest bit. He considered apologizing for defending his father all these years, but he doubted it would sort anything out. Harry did not want him back into his life. Harry did not want _anybody_.

   There were three knocks, and a deep, somehow worried voice resonated through the door, “ _Alles gut_ in there, Lou?”

   Louis coughed and wiped his wet cheeks with his sleeves, pressing his knuckles into his eyes and hoping they weren’t looking too puffy.

“Are you all right? If you need something, I..."

“I’m fine. I don’t need anything.”

   He unlocked the door and stormed out, not leaving him a chance to see him that way. He rushed straight to the bedroom and slipped back under the covers, sheltering his face with his arm. Harry joined a few minutes later.

   They shared the same bed, just like they used to do. Except this time, they kept to themselves. Louis had shuffled so close to the edge, if he moved during the night, he’d fall down straight away. It wasn’t Harry sleeping next to him. It couldn’t be.

   He hated himself for thinking that they might as well have never crossed each other’s paths again. They’d fallen apart, he’d lost sight of him, and they’d become virtual strangers. A bucketful of dust had been poured all over their shared colourful childhood.

   He spent a good part of the night remembering their life together while watching Harry sleep at the other side of the bed. He’d lifted the blanket up to his chin and he looked so peaceful, so unbothered. He listened to his steady breathing and fell asleep at dawn, when he came to the conclusion that he could’ve probably gone his whole life without seeing Harry again. He convinced himself that he hadn’t even missed him that much.

   But the next morning when he woke up, Harry was nowhere to be found. 

 


	13. Epilogue - Wenn Sie fliegen könnten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo this is the end i guess??  
> if you're still reading and following the story i'd like to thank you, i know many people would be reluctant to go through with a story that takes place in such a delicate and tragic setting. thank you if you've read/left kudos/commented on any of the parts, it means the entire world to me. i've first written If They Could Fly in french, and i was obviously much more comfortable back then. translating/writing this entire story in english was my biggest challenge, i was constantly questioning everything, and i assure you: NONE of it was easy. literally no part of the process was easy in any way shape or form. it was the single hardest thing i've ever had to do, and i started translating it without even thinking it through. i'm still so very insecure about it all, as this is my first time writing a fic in another language. i hope it didn't show too much, or if it did, i hope you were able to get past that.
> 
> i really hoped you liked it, and i'd love to get any kind of feedback on the story as a whole!!!
> 
> brace yourselves for this last part - it's quite long.
> 
> alles liebe.

 If They Could Fly...

 

    Even when Harry was still there, the Walters’ house gave off this grim, somber energy. With Harry gone, the house felt like a burial crypt. When Louis woke up, he turned the place upside down, looking for the slightest hint that could’ve proved to him that Harry had really been there, the previous day. He found nothing. All his stuff was gone, the fireplace was cleaned out, the furniture in the living room was back to its original position, and the stairs were a little dusty, too. He stopped dead in the middle of the main entrance, panting, fingers buried in his hair, helpless. Up in his head, there was the terrifying assumption that he had dreamed everything – or worse, that he had gone so insane as to hallucinate yesterday’s events. He wouldn’t put it past himself to have forced his way into the house by breaking the lock, or to have cleaned the place. For all he knew, the Walters might have never existed, this might be a complete stranger’s home. And maybe Harry really was dead.

     A cold shower and a pitiful little breakfast managed to put some order in his mind. The water was running in the bathroom. Harry had promised to fix it. And he did. _He did_.

     With a clear mind, he started thinking, half-heartedly nibbling on a chunk of bread and staring out the dirty window in the kitchen. Harry had likely gone out in the early morning. He told himself that he couldn’t have crafted a survival story for Harry even if he tried. Besides, he wouldn’t have invented one where Harry had dated a girl for three years. Louis wanted nothing else than to leave this place. But something was holding him back. He couldn’t leave just yet. He felt it was his duty to stick around – he couldn’t give up on him. He figured he’d be back soon, as he had nowhere else to stay.

     Except that Harry did not come back.

     Louis settled in a sofa with the yellow book in his hand, the one he’d found on the train. _Das Abenteuer des Werner Quabs_. He studied the cover page, with the lion and the man. Then he read the back.

_The man who dared to dream. Quiet, young bookseller Werner Quabs prefers to read books about exciting adventures. He dreams of running away and escaping the narrowness of his life. One day, he unexpectedly has to prove his courage: In his town, a lion has broken out of the circus._

     He spent the entire morning reading. He skipped lunch, too absorbed into the story to remember to eat. Every once in a while, he glanced at the front door, and then across the street, from the window. With every tick of the clock, Harry’s return was less and less likely. Louis finished the book at five o’clock, when the sound of the keys in the lock finally pierced the silence that had settled in the dark house. He felt his heart sink, and he jumped to his feet, ready to confront him. “Harry?”

     His answer was a long, deep sigh of exasperation, and a quiet, whispered, _“_ Fuck’s sake. _”_

     Louis was frowning when he entered the living room, with a shopping bag in his hand and a newspaper tucked under his arm. He wasn’t wearing a coat, only a thin black jumper with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his toned forearms. His tweed cap was covering his hair, but a few curly strands had found their way out, sticking out in all the right places. He knew Harry wanted nothing to do with him, but regardless, he still thought he was breathtakingly beautiful.

“I thought you were gone,” Louis blurted right away.

“I was, indeed. As you can see, I came back.”

     Louis stepped forward, clenching his fists, ready to pounce. “No. No, damn it, you don’t understand. I thought I’d gone mental when I didn’t find you. What’s wrong with you?”

     Harry stopped in front of the fireplace, running his fingers over the dusty trim. “Mental? That’s on you. I’ve only gone out for a few hours,” he explained, with an irritatingly calm tone.

 “So where the hell is your suitcase?”

     Harry frowned and pretended to be confused by his question. “My suitcase’s exactly where I left it.”

“No, it’s not!” 

     He smiled, somewhat amused. “I think you might need to tone it down, mate, it’s not that serious. And if that might be of interest to you, I bought food… and other useful things, too. I hope you didn’t get bored.” 

     Louis dropped down onto the sofa, exhausted. “Listen, can we talk?”

“Was yesterday’s little talk not enough for you? What will it take for you to understand?”

“Understand _what_?”

     Harry dodged his question, and he opened the newspaper on the second page. His lips curled into a little smile, one that didn’t reach all the way to his eyes. “Hey. It’s us. Yesterday, at the Bahnhof. Listen. _Zwei Brüder nach dem Krieg wieder vereint_ ,” he read with a chuckle that gave a slight rosy tint to his cheeks. “They said _two brothers_. My, bless them. Wanna see?”

     He _launched_ the newspaper at Louis. It landed at his feet. Despite the incredulous look in his eyes and his bubbling anger, Louis still bent down and picked it up. There was a photograph in the middle of the page. And it was them, hugging each other near the exit of Moltenberg’s station. The photo was illustrating an article about missing persons, and the caption underneath had the same effect as a sharp blade in his heart. _Two brothers reunited after the war_.

     Harry laughed to himself while carrying the groceries to the kitchen. “Shall I go and claim my royalties? Think I can get something out of that photograph? Ten marks? Twenty marks? One hundred marks? Do you know what you can buy with one hundred marks, Lou?”

     Louis put the newspaper aside and tried to contain himself. He closed his eyes. “Could you come back here and stop talking shit?”

     Then, there was silence in the kitchen. After a few seconds, he stormed out and headed back to the front door.

“Harry!” 

“What?” he said, with his hand on the doorknob. 

“Are you serious right now? _Komm her_ , for fuck’s sake, we need to talk.” 

 “Hey, hey, now, _beruhige dich_ , calm down. If you’re not happy, by all means, go home. I’m not holding you back at all. In fact, I’d rather you leave the house right now, but I can’t kick you out, now can I? Good day to you.”

     The door slammed shut, and there was silence again. Louis belted upstairs and searched the rooms for Harry’s suitcase. He spotted a door at the end of the narrow hallway. It opened with a creak, and he had to cover his nose and mouth to avoid breathing in the dust. By the pink wallpaper, he accurately guessed that this last room was Lili’s. The bed was messy, there was a pair of white slippers near the bedside table, and large, rectangular darker spots on the walls, where posters had been removed after several years. There was a small clock whose hands were forever stuck at 6:13, and about an inch of dust on the edge of the big window. The room seemed haunted. It told an entire story with little to no words. It seemed like the family had had to leave the house in a hurry. Louis ventured there, the floor squeaking under his weight. He looked around and came across a wardrobe. His fingers reached for the little golden knobs and he opened the doors. Nothing. At least, at first sight.

     Then he looked up. Harry’s suitcase was on the highest shelf.

     He pulled a stool and placed it in front of the wardrobe, then he climbed on it, cautious in his movements. He retrieved it carefully and took a seat on the stool, setting the suitcase on his knees. It was a rich chocolate colour, with golden corners. He supposed it had been offered to him by the Walters, just like most of his belongings. He opened it. There were a few neatly folded clothes and socks, another book by Hans Fallada, a cut-throat razor with a gorgeous mahogany handle, and a couple of black and white photographs. Louis flipped through them with determination, unwillingly lingering on Lili’s pictures. She was smiling at him, taunting him with her bright, almond-shaped eyes. If he didn’t know any better, he would think she was openly mocking him. _He was mine first. He was mine._

     One photograph in particular caught his entire attention. It was faded, very damaged and crackled everywhere. It looked like it had been crumpled and creased many times, hundreds of white lines crisscrossing on the picture. But the damage that had been done to the photograph hadn’t kept Louis from recognizing the two children. It was a bright, sunny day. They were both wearing tweed caps. On the left, the boy with the golden hair had lowered the cap over his eyes, brooding with his arms crossed. A very obviously ill-tempered child, who had everything but took it all for granted. Next to him stood a smaller pale boy with dark curly hair and shiny eyes. He had his brand-new leather satchel hanging at his side, he was hiding his hands behind his back and he had a blinding, face-splitting smile that made his eyes crinkle at the sides. Louis hadn’t seen that smile in years. It seemed now that Harry had the equivalent of the entire world’s wretchedness and grief printed on the features of his hard, cold and unshakable face. If he showed something else, it was only for the purpose of hurting, with a scathing, sharp wit in his words.

     In the corner, the date read  _September 5 th, 1932._ If only they had known.

     Louis flipped the picture around and read the words written at the back.

  

_Wenn ich fliegen könnte,_

_Würde ich zu dir nach hause kommen._

.

If I could fly,

I’d be coming right back home to you.

 

     He didn't realize the words were addressed to him, and so he put the picture back in the suitcase.

     Hidden underneath the Fallada novels was a piece of paper. It'd been torn from a book and folded in two. The words were written in english, he read them, hesitantly.

_Beating his wings harder and harder, Icarus soared up into the sky and out over the Aegean Sea. It was hard to believe it but the plan had worked. For here he was now, flying alongside his father, Daedalus, as they left the island of Crete behind them and travelled on towards their freedom. Icarus glanced over at his father and grinned. "Come along, Father," he shouted over the sound of the wind rushing past them. "Smile, we’ve done it, we’ve escaped and we’re free." “When my feet are back on solid ground and that island is many, many miles behind us, then you will see me smile,” Daedalus yelled back. “Now, keep your mind on what we have to do and remember, not too high, not too close to the sun.”_

_With a whoop of excitement, he soared up and up, gliding around the sky, zooming back down towards his father and then up again, up, up, up towards the dazzling sun._

_“Icarus, not too high, not too close to the sun,” his father screamed in desperation. “The wax on your wings will melt. Stay close to me and stay low.” But his words fell on deaf ears. The boy continued to soar up into the bright blue sky, edging nearer and nearer to the sun and, as Daedalus flew along below him, he saw a bright white feather flutter through the sky and, looking up, watched in horror as more and more feathers detached themselves from his son’s wings. He watched in despair as his son began to lose height and his despair turned to total anguish as he heard the terrified cry from his son, as he tumbled and spun past him towards the sea below._

_It took only seconds, but it seemed like a lifetime, as Daedalus saw his son plummet through the sky with increasing speed to hit the waters below with a resounding splash. Daedalus flew low in the hope of seeing the boy appear on the surface of the churning waters but he knew that nobody could have survived such a fall and that all hope was lost. With a heavy heart, and almost exhausted, Daedalus regained the height he needed and, without looking back, set his course for the island of Sicily. There he hoped that he would be welcomed and be allowed to live a trouble-free life for the rest of his days. But however long he lived, he would never be able to forget the sound of his son’s final cry as he sped towards the water. It was only the briefest of sounds but he heard it clearly, even above the sound of the foaming waves and crying gulls – “Father, help me”._

     Louis looked up from the paper, and thought that every little moment of his life had probably led up to this very point.

     He found another sheet of paper in a corner. He unfolded it: it was a letter written in black ink, a very fine and tight handwriting, difficult to read. He knew it wasn’t Harry’s but the signature at the bottom of the page let him know that Ariel had written to Karla. He felt it was very unbecoming to read those words, but he did anyway. 

              _Liebe Karla,_

_If you’re reading this letter, it means Harry’s managed to escape and I haven’t._

_They told us we’d be sent to Poland, and that those who could work would be hired at the weapon factory, and that it’d essentially be free labour for them. They don’t know who they’re talking to. There are no weapon factories on the entire Polish territory. I caught them in their lie straight away, and I knew that what lay ahead reeked of death. There was no point in trying to escape, as I’m sick and wouldn’t make it two days outside of this place. But I couldn’t let anything happen to Harry._

_I hope that when this letter reaches you, or anyone who may read it, the world will be a better place, where people have learned to coexist and where they can live and die with dignity, without fearing anyone, or anything._

_Meeting you and building this life with you was by far the most beautiful thing that’s ever happened to me. I am sorry if I wasn’t able to save all of us, I am sorry that I didn’t do everything in my power to get us out of there earlier. I am aware of all the sacrifices you’ve had to make so we could live this life together, and I will forever be grateful to you, my darling. I love you, more than you can even imagine._

_Here’s to better days._

 

_Alles Liebe,_

_Ariel Steckelberg_

1942.

 

     Louis’ heart was up in his throat after reading the very last words Ariel had addressed to her. For some reason he took it to heart, and he felt strangely furious that Harry had decided not to return to Berlin. It meant that this letter would never reach her. At that very moment, he found a tiny glass bottle at the bottom of the suitcase. He read the label. And everything clicked into place. He’d just found the answer to all of his questions. His plans that didn’t make sense, the lack of confidence in his voice whenever he talked about the future, that jaded look on his face… That was it. Louis put everything away, set the suitcase back in place and decided to go out and find him. Something was very wrong with Harry. And it was more serious than his arrogant attitude.

     It was the reason why Harry would never smile again like he did in the photograph from 1932.

     Out there, thick, grey clouds were hanging low, the air was heavy with the smell of earth and rain, and the sidewalk was still wet. Louis walked down the slightly sloping street, cool wind blowing against his face. He looked like a mess, with his bushy, neglected beard, his damp hair and his fringe sticking to his clammy face. Passersby gave him odd looks when he walked past them. Downtown Moltenberg was at the very edge of Talstraße, surrounded with antique shops, ready-to-wear clothing stores, restaurants and pubs and cafés. There weren’t any Red Flags floating or wrapped around men’s arms. The only Red Flags in the city were on the ground, covered with dirt and mud, and they were getting spat on by Soviet soldiers. There was no one left to watch civilians’ every last movement. No more paper inspections or people being shot in the middle of the street and left there as an example. It would take Louis some serious, heavy getting used to.

 

***

     Fast saxophone and piano notes poured out of the golden horn of a turntable, filling people’s ears with a jazz tune that was almost as exquisite as the young ladies dancing on the floor. Shiny shoes tapped against the hardwood, tight curls were bouncing and cotton skirts were twirling, accompanying their movements as they danced with eager gentlemen. The lighting was dim and people spoke low and soft, they laughed and they lived, at least, they tried to learn _how_ to live, after almost five years of relentless war.

     Harry gently tapped the surface of the counter with a small glass of whiskey, shoving aside the other five shot glasses, and he asked for another one. “Noch eine.”

     As the bartender prepared his drink, Harry pulled out his wallet. He only had a few dozen marks left, and fifty miserably pfennigs. It wouldn’t be enough, not even for a few weeks more. Louis _had_ to go. He had to go, because Louis wasn’t just anybody. Louis cared for him, in an overwhelming, smothering way. He wouldn’t let go of them, and Harry felt trapped and breathless. He thought back to that day at the train station; if he had walked just a little faster, if he had crossed the gates and disappeared out in the rainy street, Louis would’ve never found him. The universe had a funny way of working everything out. In that taxi ride, Harry had had time to think about different ways to get him to leave by himself.    

     First, he’d told him all about Lili Walter, hadn’t held back on a single detail of their tumultuous relationship. The point was to make Louis feel ashamed, hinting at their story, as though it were nothing more than a vulgar experience, a silly teenage fantasy, something that Louis should’ve gotten rid of with time. But Louis hadn’t left. He’d used that against him and he’d brought up Victor the Ex French Soldier Who Didn’t Even Speak German and Who’s Twenty-Seven for The Love of God. Harry used to be peaceful as a lamb, before his downfall. He used to believe that almost any conflict could be settled with words. But he had never wanted to destroy a man as much as when Louis mentioned his ex-boyfriend. He had come close to asking for more details about Victor, but after due consideration, ignorance really was bliss. He’d be better off _not_ imagining Louis with another man who would stroke his hair and kiss his lips. He downed the contents of his last shot in one go and roughly wiped his wet lips with the back of his hand. He gave a side glance at a young couple dancing nearby, and a mixture of melancholy and bitterness rose to the surface.

     The second way of getting Louis to leave by himself was to vacate the house for an entire day. He’d hidden everything, he’d put the furniture back in place, he hoped it’d drive Louis _insane_. It did, but he didn’t leave. And it was a stupid idea, he thought to himself, he had nowhere else to go and he would’ve had to come back to the house one way or another. He’d known Louis for more than half of his life. He knew him inside and out, better than anyone else in the entire world. He was aware of how hard-headed he proved to be, at times. And now, he hated that part of him more than anything. He also decided that he hated jazz. And this place. And this town, too. With his elbow digging into the hard wood of the bar, he buried his chin in the palm of his hand and closed his eyes; the music was blurry, it sounded wrong and off-pitch. He could feel his own brain drowning inside of his skull. He knew he’d be dizzy if he opened his eyes.

     Travelling back to the city wasn’t the best of ideas, and he conceded it. On the Walters’ farm, he had no time to feel sorry for himself. He couldn’t, as he had to work like an animal during the days, especially in the summer. At night, if he wasn’t about to collapse with exhaustion, and if he didn’t feel like his bones would give out, he had Lili to distract him. Many times, he tried to convince himself that he deeply loved Lili; because she’d taken care of him, because she was sweet and soft and soothing like a cold compress on his burning forehead, like a warm bath, like the smell of honeysuckles in the spring. She’d _listened_ to him, she was pretty, her body was heavenly, and she seemed to know exactly what he liked and how to touch him. But Lili had brought nothing more than a temporary diversion from the remorse and the permanent pain that had replaced the blood in his veins. Besides, how could she make it all go away when he only ever showed her the good, put-together parts of himself? As soon as she would leave his attic, early in the morning, he would cry quietly until the rooster would crow at six. He had never cared for Lili. He’d selfishly used her and her body. He came to wonder what in the world was wrong with himself; he did not miss Lili at all.

     The prospect of freedom was a far cry from what it used to mean, back then. If living free meant being alive when everybody else had suffered and perished, he did not want this life. He hadn’t tried to save anyone, hadn’t even given it a thought, _he’d just run_ , and he’d never looked back. The guilt was eating him alive, piece by piece, leaving him raw and exposed, slowly decaying – it was exactly how he felt. And he was confronted to it, every moment of every day. If he ever happened to forget, the numbers engraved in black ink deep inside his skin were there to refresh his mind. He wanted to rip them off and he had tried but he only ever managed to scratch at the first few layers of skin. He would stop when drops of blood would trickle down his arm. 

     If he could only talk to his father, he’d say only one thing: _I’m sorry._

     Ariel had risked his life – he’d lost it, even – so he could escape. Harry knew he’d be disappointed beyond explanation were he to see him on the brink, sitting in a bar and throwing his money away.

  

***

 

     As dusk fell and turned to night, Louis' feet auspiciously led him on the way to a run-down public house, hidden and crammed in the shadow of a narrow cobbled street. The surroundings were worryingly quiet; the odd car would drive by, or the heavy strum of Soviet boots would slice the quietness. It was Sunday. The trains did not run, and shops and theatres were closed. For lack of a better option, Louis pushed open the heavy door. He was instantly welcomed by a tasteful arrangement of piano notes. Music. It hadn't graced his ears in years. He skirted around weary couples and busty waitresses, and he took a seat on the only empty stool facing the high bar. He hadn't had a drink in a solid month and the shiny bottles of Scotch were viciously winking at him, but he also didn't want to fall down into his old nasty habits. 

 “What's it gonna take.... for you to leave...”

     Louis' head snapped to the left. He frowned at first, upon seeing the hot mess that Harry had turned into. He was glaring at him with an uncommon, obscure hostility. He'd known Harry for fourteen bloody years. He had never looked at him this way. Harry had always been the very embodiment of softness and light and everything sweet. If that part of him still existed, it was buried deep within.

     Still, it wasn't enough to convince him to back out and walk out on him. Louis just tilted his head and stared fearlessly right back, half aglow under the yellow light of the dangling bulb. “There you are. Looked all over for you.”

     Harry just stared him down, clenching his jaw and holding back a wave of something stronger than himself. He pleaded with his eyes. “Can’t you just go? Please, just go.”

     Louis wasn’t fooled. He knew exactly what Harry was doing, and what he had in mind. He pushed his stool closer to his, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders in a gesture that was certainly meant to be friendly but ended up being rather threatening and heavy with reproach. “We’re going back to the house.”

“No.” 

“Yes, we are. We’re leaving, and we’re going to talk.”

     Harry pulled out his wallet. “I don’t want to talk. I want you to go away.”

     Even though he already knew the answer, Louis still asked, “And why do you want me to go away?”

“Because I hate you.”  His words were meant to be cruel. But his thick, raspy voice made him lose all credibility. He set a few bills upon the counter and stood up carefully, leaning on the edge so as not to fall over. The bartender was cleaning a glass with a piece of cloth, and as he gauged them from a distance, Louis caught his eyes. Louis collected the bills from the counter, stowed them in Harry’s back pocket and paid for the drinks with his own money.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, patting his own back pocket in confusion.

“Taking you home.” 

“But… but why d…” he gave up on his sentence halfway through, too disoriented to continue. Louis let him lean against him and walked him to the door. “Did you hear what I said?” he asked, in a slurred, slow voice. “I hate you.”

     Louis pushed the door open with his foot. “I know you don’t, Harry.”

“Who do you think you are? I hate you, I hate you so much.”

“That’s not true,” he repeated, his voice firm and unwavering as he guided him through the dark, winding street. “You don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” he finally admitted, with a lump in his throat, eyes welling up with tears.

“We’re going back home, _das reicht_.” he said. “Enough of this.” 

     By the time they reached the Walters’ house, Harry was two seconds away from breaking down. He had promised himself to stay calm and collected in front of him, but now that he was drunk and sad and angry at everyone, biting down his tongue and keeping it all bottled up seemed to be the hardest challenge. Inside, Louis guided his steps through the dark and up the stairs. He led him into the bedroom, then he sneaked into Lili’s room and pulled the suitcase out of the wardrobe. Harry was waiting, sitting on the edge of the bed, his head spinning, buried in his hands, his cheeks stained with tears and his entire body shaking with sobs he was trying to stifle. He could hear Louis’ footsteps in the hallway, and yet he still dared to hope that he would turn around, return to Berlin and leave him alone. All his walls were crumbling. The masquerade he’d kept up for nearly twenty-four hours was becoming painfully apparent. He felt trapped and vulnerable, and he hated it.

     When Louis stepped into the room, Harry _begged_ him, “Please, go away.”

“You can count on it, mate. You’re one sick man, you know that?” 

     From the suitcase, he pulled out the little glass bottle that read  ** _cyanide_** in big, capital letters. He showed Harry the label, pointing at the skull and crossbones. Harry hadn’t left the Walters’ farm to _discover the world,_ as he had so shamelessly claimed. He’d left to find a place where he could kill himself in peace. Of course, he couldn’t have done it over there. And it was obvious that he had been mentally unstable for a while, and that there was nothing he could’ve done about it. He could neither run away nor end it on the spot, it would've put the Walters in danger. The end of the war had come like a miracle, for all the wrong reasons.

“You’ve fucked it all up,” Harry said, removing his hands off of his face, it was red and splotchy and wet, and he’d never looked so miserable.

“Do you know why I’m still here? I’m here because I lost you once, and there’s no way I’m letting it happen again.”

“I didn’t _ask_ you to stay.” 

“That's why I'm staying.” Careful in his movements, Louis gently pushed him back onto the mattress, “Lie down,” he said. “You need to rest.”

     He watched with a heavy heart as Harry covered his eyes with his forearm and as his tears continued to run down his face. “Louis…”

     Louis untied the laces on Harry's right shoe. “I’m right here.”

 “I’m a horrible person,” he whispered in between sobs.

     Louis took off his second shoe, “You’re not,” he assured him, firmly.

“Yes, I am,” he protested. “I didn’t even try _… I didn’t even try_ to save anyone… Not one person. I just ran, Louis, I ran. If I had helped just _one_ person… I don’t even deserve to be alive.”

     Louis paused, knees digging into the soft mattress. He gritted his teeth and held back his own tears. “Don't,” he said, softly. “Harry, you're hurting yourself.”

“Don’t tell me how to feel,” he spat. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

     Louis just sat there and watched him suffer quietly. He had heard about bad cases of survivor’s guilt. He had heard about people taking their own lives, crumbling under the weight of remorse and self-reproach, after years spent overthinking. He couldn’t let this happen.

“So many people have died,” his croaky voice continued, “And look at me. I have nowhere to go, I have no money, no family to go back to, I have nothing. What am I even doing here? And you,” he sat up on the bed, as if to confront Louis better. He had tears in his red eyes, and pure fury. Louis crossed his arms and lowered his head in expectancy. “You won’t leave. I’m asking you for this _one thing_ , and you won’t give it to me. I’m in so much fucking pain, you don’t understand. For three years, I've been needing this. I need it so bad... If we hadn't found each other again, it wouldn't have made the slightest difference. I'd have been dead anyway and-” 

“How can you say that?” he snapped, loud and sharp, his words stinging like a dull blade across his skin.

     Harry fell silent suddenly. New tears were blurring his vision, his lips were pressed in a tight line, and he just stared at him.

“After everything your father’s done for you!”

     A patch of silence stood between them, now.

“You’re here. You’re alive. You shouldn’t bear that kind of guilt on your shoulders, you’ve nothing to blame yourself for! You’re _destroying_ yourself by dwelling on this, Harry, you don't realize how bad this is. Can you imagine if you’d tried to help somebody, and you both got caught and died? What you're about to do.. I promise you, it won't change what happened in the past. You’ve lived to spread the word, you’ve lived to tell your story, you’ve lived so justice could be done to the ones who’ve died. Now, if you kill yourself, Ariel will have died for nothing. Is that what you want?”

     When Harry shook his head, it was barely perceptible. Louis lowered his voice. “I would’ve given anything for a father like yours, Harry. It breaks my heart to say these things to you, but if you don’t want to stay for me, at least do it for him. I don’t need to remind you that he’s done everything for you since the very first day. He paid for a private teacher so you could keep studying, he did everything he could to get you that bloody passport for Switzerland, he’s risked his life for you so many times. Have you even read his letter? That man had a heart of gold, and he’s given you a second chance to live your life the way you want it. And you just…” He glanced at the bottle of cyanide capsules. “You haven’t even thought about all the people who are still here, and who still love you. We’re not all gone. Your mother…”

“Karla,” Harry corrected, messily wiping his tears with the back of his hand. “That woman has done enough for me. I’ve been nothing but trouble for her for over ten years, she’s suffered so much and she doesn’t need…”

“She's your mother. She loves you more than anything in the world! She loves you so much, Harry. And I love you too. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you, and I think it’s time you realized that.”

     Then, it all seemed to click into place. After fourteen years, he’d just said it. He’d said the words that were burning his mouth for as long as he could remember.

“I’m sorry,” was Harry’s pathetic two-word answer. 

“Don’t say that.” 

“I’m sorry I’ve let you down.” 

     Confined in the narrowness of his chest, Louis’ heart tripled in size. He shifted closer on the mattress. “I’m not disappointed,” he said, in a strangled whisper. He felt the tears prickling his eyes. “You’ve let nobody down.” He gently brought a hand to Harry’s face, he felt the wetness of his cheek underneath his palm and he wiped the tears away with his thumb. “You’re loved. _You’re so loved_ , Harry, and I’m so terribly proud of you. You’re worth it, you deserve to be here, you deserve a second chance, you deserve the life you’ve always wanted. Please, think about it,” he begged, and his voice cracked at the end of his words. “I wish I could’ve suffered in your place, wish I could’ve gone through all that pain so you wouldn’t have to. I would’ve done it in a heartbeat.”

     Harry kept quiet; his features softened up, and he looked drowsy. He was too drunk to come up with a good enough answer, and so he just listened attentively. Louis’ fingers made their way to the back of his neck, softly stroking the tiny hairs. He kissed him on the corner of his lips, and whispered against his mouth, “You can’t even begin to imagine how much I love you. I’ve loved you all this time. I always did. And I always will.” 

     Louis hadn’t said it just to hear it back. He’d said it to make sure he knew. After so many years spent beating around the bush with their tongues on fire and their hands tied, he felt he deserved to hear those three words.

     Even with his beard and his hollow cheeks, Louis’ eyes had remained the same. Still so brilliantly blue, and with that touch of mischief that was there since childhood. “I missed you,” he added. “I missed you so much, I’ve been looking for _you_ in everyone I meet.”

“I missed you too,” his answer sounded muffled. “I’m sorry if I was horrible to you. I really did miss you,” he repeated.

“It’s all good,” he murmured, placing a small kiss on his cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“My head hurts,” he said, hugging himself as he always did when he felt vulnerable and scared. “I want to sleep.”

“Of course.”

     Louis lay down with him on the mattress and pulled the blanket over themselves. Harry curled up under the covers, a shiny layer of tears lingering in his eyes. “I wouldn’t hold it against you if you wanted to go back to Berlin now,” he whispered, staring at the wall behind Louis.

“And leave you alone in here?” he chuckled lightly. “How do you think Karla will react when I tell her that I’ve found you and left you alone in some random city?”

“Don’t tell her anything.”

     Louis’ hand reached over to his hair and his fingers threaded softly through the short curls. “One step at a time, yeah? Try to sleep for now.”

     He stroked his hair for what seemed like an eternity. He could swear he’d never seen such distress in a single pair of eyes. _This is what it looks like,_ he thought, _feeling guilty of being alive._ A poignant, heart-wrenching sight for nobody else to see. They’d taken him away and spit him back out into the world, leaving him empty and adrift, a broken man, just a shell of himself.

     It was the longest night of Louis’ life. When Harry started crying again, Louis knew better than to stop him. It was no secret than he was used to breaking down whenever he allowed himself to, but this time he wasn’t alone. Louis was there with him, and when the rain started dripping against the window, he knew it made all the difference in the world.

 

***

 

     The next morning, when Harry opened his eyes after a mere two chaotic hours of sleep, he was instantly overcome by that same bitterness he’d been engulfed with, during his time at the Walters’. Some sort of blunt sickness and disgust in view of the upcoming day.

     He shrugged off the covers quietly, so as to avoid waking Louis who was still very much asleep and snoring. He let his back rest against the headboard and just sat there in silence. The morning sun was pouring into the tiny bedroom. They’d left the shutters open. In between long blinks, his eyes tried to adjust to the brightness. His ears were ringing and his head was throbbing painfully. On the floor, by the bed, lay his shoes and socks, and his trousers too. He still had on his black jumper and his underwear; he slowly pieced last night’s events together. He remained quiet for a few minutes, thoughtfully watching Louis sleep next to him.

     Louis would never forgive him.

     For a second, he considering waking him up as a last resort. He wanted to apologize beforehand. He abstained from it. Louis was sleeping. This was his chance. It was now, or never.

     Harry finally stood up. He moved quietly around in the room, searching for the tiny glass bottle. It must’ve still been there, somewhere, Louis hadn’t left the room. The floorboards would creak in some spots, he was very careful not to step on those. He found it at the bottom of a heavy drawer. It looked tiny in his hand, yet one small capsule could cut his breath for good.

     He walked out and locked himself inside of Lili’s room. He sat on her small bed, breathing in the dust, and stared at the label. The skull stared back at him. He lost track of time. When he snapped out of his trance, the sun was shining just a little brighter outside.

     He couldn’t.

     And he didn’t want to. If he had really wanted to, he would’ve done it already. He wouldn’t be sitting there, searching for the slightest little excuse to stay alive and clinging to it with all his might. He had overcome too much. Louis' words crept up in his mind. All his life, death had flirted with him. A series of coincidences and a sheer amount of luck had allowed him to escape its murderous advances. What a shame it would be, to put a brutal and intentional end to the ongoing miracle that was his life. His fingers clenched around the bottle. It took him a while to work up the courage to open the window and throw it out. He heard the glass shattering against the concrete, and he let out a shaky breath, feeling the warm wind kissing his face. He knew for a fact that this wasn’t over. It was merely a small victory over his own self. Over the years, the guilt would subside, but that feeling never quite left him, just like the numbers on his arm. 

     Upon entering the master bedroom and seeing Louis on the bed, still asleep with his hair all messy and his face halfway buried into the pillow, he felt his heart swell. He was still snoring loudly—he never wanted to admit it, and he always made a point of blaming his asthma for his nightly racket. Harry pulled his shirt off and let it drop on the ground, right by the rest of his clothes. He slipped under the covers and helped Louis shift on the mattress. The change of position instantly made him stop snoring. Their faces were mere inches apart, and the tiniest smile appeared on Harry’s full lips.

     After a while, he risked putting his lips on the tip of his nose. When it didn’t seem to stir him awake, he went on, placing a flutter of small kisses until he winced. He kept going, moving down to his mouth. Louis let out a low growl, and Harry felt it was appropriate to remind him of a _very important_ conversation they’d had when they were children, in the bathtub. “I’ve always said I’d end up taller than you.”

     There was a slight scowl on Louis’ face. He didn’t even open his eyes. “But I’m the one who has the beard,” he muttered.

     Harry rubbed his nose against his cheek and placed a kiss right there. “You look very manly. I like it. But it has to go.”

“Hm. Jealous, ‘s what you are,” he argued, eyes still shut tight.

“I’m hurt.” 

“And hairless.” 

“I choose to shave,” he protested quietly.

“Yeah right.” 

“The beard has to go.”

“All right.”

“ _Jetzt._ ”

“Will you allow me to bloody wake up, or…”

“Yes.”

     When Louis’ lips stretched in a tiny smile, Harry climbed on him with his knees at either side of his body, and leaned in for a kiss. With his eyes still closed, Louis raised his eyebrows in pleasant surprise. “Hallo, you,” he breathed, as soon as their lips parted.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I could kiss you all day.”

“No,” Harry said, separating each one of his short sentences with a little kiss. “I’m sorry about yesterday. And the day before. I’m sorry about all that stuff I’ve told you. I wasn’t in my right mind. I’d just… I’d just like to thank you for being there for me. I’m glad you’ve stayed. I don’t deserve you. I’m sorry.”

     That was when Louis finally dared to look at him. Harry had always had the most beautiful eyes in the world – the horrors he’d witnessed had tarnished them forever. Louis could still see wisps of yesterday’s heartbreaking pain lingering inside of them.

“I heard you the other night,” Harry continued. “I heard you crying in the bathroom and it broke my heart. I know it’s my fault and I’m so terribly sorry. I think you know I didn’t mean anything I said.” 

“I know,” he whispered, stretching his arms above his head, eyes still halfway closed. “Just don’t... don't ever scare me like you did… I can’t lose you again.”

     He couldn’t promise him that. But he could tell him one thing. “I love you. _I love you so much_.” Fireworks went off in Louis’ ribcage. He was speechless for a while, but there were several thousand things he wished to say. Harry went for another kiss, an eager, greedier one. He felt like he was taking something that had always belonged to him. Louis' arms wrapped around his back and he held him there, flush against his chest. “I always did," Harry added. “Always will. You're my only one.”

“No matter what?” Louis asked for good measure, lips curling into a hopeful grin. 

“No matter what,” Harry confirmed, delightfully capturing Louis' bottom lip between his own.

“I should be in Berlin already, Mutti must be worried sick,” Louis slipped, in between two noisy kisses. “I should go.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry sighed, and dropped to his side, hiding his face in the pillow. He gave it some thought for a short while, then he groaned loudly and gave in. “I think I might come with you.”

     Louis straightened up, propping himself up on his elbows. “ _Ja wirklich?_ ”

“Yes," he said, turning his head to face him. He looked like he could fall right back asleep, one of his eyelids was closed, eyelashes fanning over his cheeks. “I might do something stupid if I stay here alone. Can't trust myself.”

     His words hurt deeply, and Louis realized just how much he needed him right now. “I'm here with you. Not going anywhere without you... If you feel bad again, please, just.. Just talk to me, all right?”

“I will... Now, for the beard...”

“Actually, I might just keep it.”

“You look like a lumberjack. Get up. I'll do it myself.”

 

***

     In the bathroom, Harry had made him sit on top of the sink. 

“Shaving cream!” Louis exclaimed excitedly. “You bought shaving cream!”

“This was planned, if you haven't figured it out yet.”

“She’s three months old,” Louis said with a sly grin, stroking his chin.

“I can see that. Now if you don’t mind…”

     Harry stood between his legs, with the shaving cream and the small brush in his hands. He spread the foam evenly over his cheeks. He took a quick trip down memory lane at the same time. They were about eight and a half and they were playing grown-ups in the bathroom after they’d stolen a razor from Louis’ father. Harry still had a faint scar by his ear, courtesy of Louis’ clumsiness. There had been blood everywhere that day—a very dramatic event, when they reflected on it. Frieda had nearly fainted.

  Harry pulled out his straight razor, the one with the mahogany handle, and unsheathed the five-inch long blade.

“That, is a proper weapon of mass destruction,” Louis whispered. “You know that, right?”

“Herr Walter gave it to me when I turned twenty. I had nothing to shave with.”

“You had nothing to shave, more like. You're not fooling anybody.”

“Shut up. And don’t move. This can cut you open. Stay still, I mean it.” Harry’s tongue was unconsciously sticking out as he focused on gently grazing the skin with the blade in tiny sharp strokes. Louis crossed his ankles behind Harry’s back. “If you distract me…” he threatened.

“I won’t. Go on.”

     And Harry did just that. He started humming a song, his deep voice echoed around the tiny bathroom. And with that, Louis knew this instant that Harry was the _only one_ he would ever want to grow old with. Their story made it hard for anyone to believe that the universe wasn't continuously fighting for souls to be together. How often was it that two people had their intertwined destiny written in the stars?

     When he finished, Harry stepped backwards to have a good overview of his smooth, closely shaved skin. He looked seventeen again and just as sly and devilish as he did back then.

“Why’ve you let yourself go?” Harry asked, quietly.

     Louis just shrugged. Ever since he’d run away from Victor, it seemed to him that even something as mundane as shaving in the morning was no longer worth it. He quirked an eyebrow, “How do I look?”

     Harry cupped his cheeks, staring deep into his eyes. “You look beautiful, my love. You always do.”

    Louis blushed, but there was something so undeniably sad about it. He'd never called him that, before, yet those words had always been there, wavering at the tip of their tongues at all times, threatening to slip out but never quite doing it. “We’ve lost so much time, haven’t we..”

“We’re twenty-one,” Harry said, shaking his head. “We’ve got our whole life ahead of us.”  And when he said that, he knew for sure that he wouldn’t be able to go back on his words. They had their whole lives ahead of them. _He_ did, too. He kissed him again, and when they pulled apart, he whispered, with his forehead still pressed against his. “There’s a train heading to Berlin at four o’clock.”

 “Are we allowed to shower together?”

     Harry just smiled, running his hands up and down either side of Louis' body. “Of course not. We’ve grown up, the both of us _._ It wouldn't be right. _”_

     Ten minutes later, they found themselves under the same stream of water. Harry was washing Louis’ hair, stealing kisses every now and then; on his lips, in his neck, between his shoulder blades. Louis allowed himself to revel in that tiny moment of happiness. He knew it wouldn’t last, but he made it his goal to prove to Harry that the world could still be beautiful. That men were capable of a lot of good. That flowers could still bloom after all. That the sun was still out there. That he could fly, if he wanted to.

 

***

 

“Watch this.”

     Sitting on top of the kitchen counter in nothing but his underwear, Louis watched with a wicked smile as Harry sprinkled some salt and corn kernels onto a large pan. There was a small chunk of butter slowly melting in there, right above the stove. He had no idea what Harry was up to, but by the cheeky look on his face, it was bound to be promising. He too was dressed in his underwear, but he had on an unbuttoned baby blue dress shirt, wide open, revealing his smooth, hard torso underneath. His hair was wet and messy, and there were tiny droplets of water dripping down his neck, staining the fabric of his shirt in deep blue spots. Louis wished there was a way he could capture this moment and keep it with him forever. 

     The Walters’ house had never seemed so bright and lively. Harry was, without the shadow of a doubt, the kind of person whose mood alone was enough to radically change a room’s atmosphere. And that said a lot about him.

“I’m still waiting,” said Louis, leaning closer to the stove.

     Harry let out a small laugh as he ran a hand through his own dishevelled hair. “You've got to be patient.”

“It’ll be 2005 and we’ll still be here, waiting for whatever you said was meant to happen with this bloody pan…”

“Just keep watching,” Harry said, never taking his eyes off of the small grains. After a few minutes of Louis relentlessly joking and risking his life trying to catch some buttered kernels, something happened. “There… There, look!”

     Louis just frowned as one of them bounced off the pan and onto the counter. It’d popped into a small, cloud-shaped bite of corn. “What in the world…”

“They eat this in _Amerika_.” Harry picked it up between his fingers and brought it up to Louis’ lips. “ _Probier das._ Taste this, I know you'll like it.”

     Louis’ eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You’re not going to poison me, are you? What even is this?”

 “It’s corn!” he laughed. “ _Pop corn!_ You’ve seen it with your own eyes! Open your mouth.”

“Open my mouth? Take me out on a date first, you madman. What’s the rush…” 

“Please. It’s very tasty. Trust me,” he begged softly, and Louis finally complied. “ _Hier._ That’s it.”

     His lips wrapped around the tips of Harry’s fingers and he kept them there for much longer than needed.

“Good?” Harry asked faintly, eyes zeroing in on his mouth. In no time, their lips met again. Passionate, fiery and yet filled with inexplicable tenderness – as were most of their kisses. This one didn’t stand out, but for some reason, all their senses sparked awake. Louis ran his fingers through his dark, wet curls and pressed his bare chest against his. Harry cautiously took the pan off of the stove and turned it off, sliding his hands underneath Louis’ thighs and lifting him off of the kitchen counter. Louis’ legs clung to his waist and his ankles crossed behind his lower back. Harry carried him away, blindly climbing the stairs as their kiss turned messier. It was almost embarrassing how easily Harry could lift and support him, and how light he felt in his arms. Despite the dangerous trip in the staircase, they found themselves in the main room, where the bed was still undone, with the sheets sliding off the mattress like waterfalls.

“Not bad, not bad,” Louis whispered, properly impressed that they had made it up there without falling over. 

“Thank you.”

     The last of their clothes wound up on the wooden floor, the room filled up with the sound of their heavy breathing, sloppy kisses and whispered sweet nothings.

     Harry had missed everything about Louis, and he let him know in his own way. He had his body mapped out in his head, every square inch of it engraved in his memory. He drew a trail of a thousand little kisses upon his smooth skin, starting from his neck all the way down to his navel, awakening waves of goosebumps along his path. 

     Now, daringly, is how he touched him in all the right ways. 

     Daringly, is how he turned the initial pain into ever growing pleasure.

     And daringly, is how he made love to him. Tenderly, too. He’d get drunk out of spilling little _love you’s_ in his ear. His lips paid special attention to his neck and to the heart-shaped birthmark on his shoulder, marking him right there.

     They painted a hauntingly beautiful picture.

     When moans and whimpers and grunts turned into peaceful huffs and then near total silence, they settled for quiet cuddles. Louis was lying on his stomach, head buried into the pillow, a thin glistening layer of sweat coating his back and the nape of his neck. He felt Harry’s weight upon his back, felt his hands feeling up his sides, felt his lips right underneath his ear, not quite touching his skin, just grazing it ever so slightly. “Missed you so much,” he whispered. “You were so good, so good for me.”

“Hey,” he said, weakly, staring off into the room. “How is it… Making love to a girl?”

     He couldn’t see Harry’s face, but he knew he’d brought up something delicate. He felt his hand caressing his shoulder, fingers gently digging into his flesh. “Why are you thinking about this?” When Louis didn’t answer, he added something he thought he should know. “I’ve never loved Lili. I’ve never loved anybody but you.”

“Yeah, but… how is it? Is it better?” he prompted him.

“No… It’s not better. It’s different.”

     Louis’ insecurity showed again painfully through the tone of his voice when he asked, “Have you ever wished I was a girl? I know you like girls.”

     Harry’s reply was firm, leaving no room for debate, “Never.”

     Louis struggled to flip around on the mattress, but when he did and when he held his love drunk gaze, he just smiled and said, “Good.” 

“Shower again?” Harry suggested, running his fingers through Louis’ damp hair. He nodded quietly. “Then we've got to clean up the place.”

“We? Who’s we?”

“I’ll clean up, then.”

“Ah, how terribly nice of you!”

 

***

     The road back to Berlin was a sobering moment for the both of them. As they neared the Hauptstadt, leaving Moltenberg and its peaceful surroundings behind, they could see just how miserable it had all become.

     They shared the same compartment, only this time, there were no strangers.

     Harry was biting his lip, fingernails absently scratching at the numbers on his arm. Louis placed a light kiss on his cheek, resting his head on his shoulder. He grabbed hold of Harry’s hand to prevent him from scratching. “You’re okay.”

     He felt Harry’s entire body tense up when the door opened on a train inspector. The man looked at their linked hands. “Tickets,” he said.

     Louis handed both of their tickets over to him. When he left, Louis reasserted his words, more firmly this time. “You’re okay.”

     Berlin was unrecognizable.

     Just a few blocks away from the train station, all around them, whole families were stranded outside, homeless, carrying heaps of suitcases and bags. Children and toddlers alike were playing on the dusty ground with their dirty faces and ragged clothes, carelessly climbing mighty mountains of bricks. Thousands of people found themselves in the street, roaming the ruins and looking for what had once been their home, now crumbled to bits. The narrow, cobbled streets where they used to pass through with their little blue and red bicycles; the shops with the colourful signs; the neighbourhoods they knew like the back of their hands; nothing had been spared. Their street, Rockenfeld Straße, who’d witnessed their entire childhood and misadventures, had been reduced to a mere skeleton of what it used to be. Large chunks of some buildings were missing, like a half-eaten chocolate bar, or like a plank of wood that had been nibbled on by termites, but they still stood there, solid and upright, ashamed, too. The road was obstructed with brick dust, large fragments of walls, or pale, motionless human limbs, visible through the piles of breeze blocks. It went without saying that the street had its fair share of dead people. Some doors had been marked with a huge, bright red **LSB** to indicate where the air raid shelters were located.

     It came as no surprise to Harry, who had been closely following the events leading up to the end of the war. One bright day, at the end of April, as he was working on the fields, his face dirty with mud, he’d heard the deafening engines of three warplanes right above his head. He’d looked up, squinting at the sun, and followed their rapid course with his eyes, nearly giving himself a whiplash. Herr Walter had stood right next to him.

“Where are they going?” Harry had asked.

“To bomb the _shit_ out of Berlin,” Herr Walter had gleefully replied.

     Louis, too, knew exactly what to expect. Frankfurt had been targeted as well. Of course, he knew all about the air raids. One of them remained etched in his mind, and he kept a painful memory of it. He was alone at Victor’s, one morning in the spring. He was working at his desk, sitting near a large window with a cup of coffee in his hand, scarcely awake. It had started with a distant whistle, like a kettle that would have been neglected on the fire. And from that muffled noise was born an even more shrill sound, that grew stronger and louder, that made the surface of his coffee vibrate. Then the window next to him had burst into a thousand little shards of glass. He had been wounded to the head, his left ear had bled all day and he didn’t remember much, except that Victor had barged into the place and forcefully pulled him out of there, dragging him into the nearest shelter.

     He also remembered there had been a constant ringing in his ear for a week. He still couldn’t quite hear as well as he used to, ever since that day. That was the only time Victor had actually seemed worried about him. He’d spent nights at his bedside, and he’d even called him _“Mon amour_ ” once.

     For the second time ever, the street was so frightfully silent. Silent like a child who’d just received a well-deserved punishment after throwing a terrible fit. Nothing could’ve painted a better portrait of the German people at that time. They were moving piles of bricks and concrete around in large wheelbarrows. They were repairing walls and doors and filling up potholes on the street. But they didn’t speak. They only coughed and choked on the dust. 

     Both Harry and Louis’ buildings had been blown up. In their place; wonky metallic structures, and vacant rooms exposed to the air.

“Where’s… where’s your family?” Harry hesitantly asked, and turned to face him. Louis was just looking around aimlessly, clenching his jaw and holding back tears.

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll ask around. Stay here.”

     He did as he was told, dropping his suitcase on the ground, crossing his arms and staring at his feet. His mother’s last letter to him dated back to the end of April. For years, it had been their only way of communication. Frieda had written far more letters than she’d received. She had been determined to make amends; her letters were always filled with sorrow and countless apologies. Before he left, toward the end of December 1941, Louis had turned oddly cold and withdrawn, even aggressive at times. He’d threatened to hurt her if she didn’t let him go. She’d been more worried than afraid – she knew her son very well, he was all bluster, wouldn’t have done anything. She’d contacted her sister in Frankfurt and arranged for him to go live with her. She’d watched with a heavy heart as he packed up his belongings on Christmas day. He hadn’t said goodbye to her, or to any of the girls. He’d slammed the door and never looked back.

     From the corner of his eye, he saw a young girl approaching him slowly, as though she wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing. He ignored her for a moment, but when she stopped right before him, he could no longer pretend that she wasn’t there. He looked up from the ground. It took him far too long to recognize Lotte. Her pale blue dress had turned dull grey because of all the dust, and her hair was so much longer than he remembered. There was dirt on her face; the bright blue of her eyes stood right out. She looked worried at first, then there was a hint of relief that softened her up as she finally managed to speak, “It’s you.”

     He didn’t remember her voice as being this sweet. Slowly, she pulled him into her arms. He had a sudden urge to cry as he realized that she was just as tall as him, and that she had just turned fourteen.

“Hey,” he weakly whispered. “You okay?”

     They pulled apart and he held both of her hands. Her eyes were wet, and some tears had left traces all over her dirty cheeks. “Thought I’d never see you again.”

“Believe it or not, for a moment I thought the same thing.” 

     She frowned and stared him down, “Why’d you leave us?”

“I needed to get away,” he said, looking around at the desolate street. “I’m sorry.”

     Lotte hugged him again, more tightly. “I missed you so much. It was horrible.”

“I missed you too… Where’s everyone?”

  Lotte just gasped loudly instead of answering. “Is that…” She stopped in her tracks, and slowly pulled away. Harry was back, and by her teary eyes and gaping mouth, it was obvious that she’d just spotted him. She stayed still for a few seconds, and when Louis put his hand on her back and gently pushed her forward, she darted away, running to him and stumbling over some bricks with the fragile soles of her shoes. Harry narrowly caught her before she fell forward.

“Careful, now,” he softly chuckled.

Lotte kissed both of his cheeks, her hands shaking, and full of renewed hope. “You’re alive!” she cried. “ _Gott im Himmel,_ you’re alive! And you’re here!”

“And I’m here,” he repeated, slightly amused.

“Found him on the train,” Louis said with a small, knowing smile. A warmth spread through his chest, “A happy little miracle.”

***

     Rockenfeld Straße’s residents had been evacuated earlier that month, as had been most of the people in the neighbourhood. With so many houses destroyed, their last resort was to cram themselves into the remaining standing homes in the outskirts of town. Like many others, a house had been used to shelter entire families and dozens of restless kids. There was no power, and no running water anywhere. Lotte had dragged Louis and Harry along with her; she and her sisters shared their living place up in the dusty attic. It was cramped, but at least they were isolated from all the noise and the infant cries and the fuss from downstairs. There lived a married couple with three young kids; an old man who was too injured to fight on the front; two orphaned teenage girls and a set of infant twins who had survived an air raid, and whose parents had perished. And of course, all of the Teller children.

     Lotte knocked twice on the dark green door, hardly containing her excitement. Whenever she looked at Harry, there were little stars twinkling in her eyes. He’d smiled back at her, deeply aware that he would have to tell his story all over again. He wasn’t looking forward to it. He hung back and stood against the wall.

     The door opened on Frieda, who was balancing one of the baby twins on her hip, her eyebrows knit together in what seemed like a perpetual state of anguish. Her mouth hung open as she saw Louis on the doorstep. He was smiling at her, shyly, granted, but still. She walked back into the living room and handed the baby to the first person she encountered, and ran back outside. Lotte stepped back and watched in awe as Frieda pulled Louis into the warmest, tightest hug. She kissed his forehead and his hair and his cheeks, trembling with emotion, incredulous to it all. _He was back._

“It’s so good to see you, _meine Liebe_ ,” her voice was strangled and full of incoming tears.

“Good to see you, too,” he whispered, rubbing her back. “Mutti, look who I found.”

     From beneath her wet eyelashes, Frieda managed to peek over Louis’ shoulders. “What… _Lieber Gott._ This can’t be…” 

     Harry looked at her with a blank face, leaning on the wall with his arms crossed. The woman standing on the doorstep was a far cry from the young girl he’d known fourteen years ago. _A girl_ , was the appropriate way to describe her, back then. A girl who didn’t know exactly what she was doing for years upon years. Though, he remembered that she had always done nothing less than her very best. She had struggled with a baby on her hands at the age of seventeen, and had not stopped since. She was thirty-eight years old today, with more children than she could count. Today, the dark circles underneath her eyes and her flat, lifeless hair were a direct testimony of her state of mind.

     It was a miracle; Harry was a miracle, and she didn’t fail to let him know.

“Well, as I live and breathe. Harry... You’re alive.”

     Harry hung back for a short while, clueless as to what he was meant to say. He couldn’t think for much longer, as she walked up to him, and pulled him in just as tight an embrace as she had done with Louis. It caught him off guard and for a few seconds, he didn’t move.

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry about everything.” 

 “I…”

“I’m so glad you’re here, darling. Thank God. Shall we look at you, then…” She stepped back and held his wrists. Her face was red and she had a bright smile on her pale lips. “My God, how you’ve grown, and how beautiful you are… I can’t believe this. You’re okay, aren’t you?” She held his face with her soft hands. “God bless you, _Liebling…_ If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I’d do anything. You must hate me, I know, but…”

     Harry met Louis and Lotte’s pleading eyes, silently begging him to be indulgent and to go easy on her. “I don’t hate you,” he simply said.

     She squeezed his arms, feeling her heart swell up. “You’ve such a big heart, _Liebling_. I don’t deserve it… Please, come in.”

 

***

     The house belonged to the Gärtner family; the married couple and their three turbulent children. The husband had a severe heart condition and for a while, he considered it a blessing. He’d rather stay with his family until the very end than be sent off to foreign lands and die alone on the field.

     The kitchen was the largest room in the first floor. There was an old, rusty bread oven (a God-given gift) surmounted by hobs and grates. The barrel of wine in the corner looked right out of place. The starchy foods were clustered under the counter, behind a checkered curtain. The place was evidently the heart of the house, with children running around and stealing what little food they could find, or helping the adults with the cooking. Luzi and Matilda were six years old now, and they were helping Frau Gärtner with dinner, perched upon small wooden stools near the kitchen counter with their thin, twig-like legs and their hair tied up in little pig tails. Harry smiled when he recognized them, but the girls just gave him odd looks. They had no recollection of him whatsoever. Frieda introduced him to Frau Gärtner as an old friend of Louis. The woman just smiled warmly at him. If he hadn’t seen her children beforehand, he could’ve still told that she was a mother. It could be read in her eyes, she looked kind and reassuring. He and Louis took seats around the wooden table. There were a few dozen pods of peas strewn about, and some of them had been emptied in a small bowl.  Louis held his hand underneath the table, idly squeezing his fingers. Harry didn't dare to ask about Herr Teller. But he looked at the spot on Frieda's finger where there used to be a ring, and he reached his own conclusion. 

     Frieda let him know that he didn’t have to talk about it if he didn’t feel comfortable, but he insisted that he felt ready again. Lotte joined them in the kitchen and sat down by her mother to finish collecting the little peas.

     Louis held his hand tighter. _You’re okay_.

     Harry’s voice was quieter and lower than usual when he told his story, again. He didn’t go into details, and he skipped the parts which he knew would open up badly mended wounds. His words caught Frau Gärtner’s attention. Sometimes, she’d stop and listen, then she’d go right back to kneading the bread dough. Luzi and Matilda too were listening, half-heartedly, but still, they did. This version of the story was the same one he used a few years later, on his first press conference overseas. As time went by, and as he grew older, he would add more and more details, but it would still be as painful and as difficult to share as the first time he did it. The palm of his hand was a little sweaty, engulfed in Louis’ grip. Though, he was thankful for his support. By the end of his story, he realized just how quiet the room had become. Frieda was staring thoughtfully at him, speechless. The look on her face wasn't unlike the hundreds of people's expressions, as he spoke before small assemblies and courtrooms and interviews, later in his life. He would deliver the words in the exact same manner, sometimes in German, sometimes in broken English.

“If you need a job,” Frau Gärtner started saying, and she spun on her heels to face him. “My husband knows a lot of people. If you need help getting back on your feet, just let us know.”

“That’s very kind, thank you.”

“Unbelievable, what they’re getting away with,” she added, untying her apron. “May you all get the justice you deserve.”

“ _Dankeschön_ ,” he said, again.

     Frieda finally gathered the courage to speak up. “I’m so sorry about what happened to your father, Harry… I think you’re very brave. I wish I had done something to help, when I could… Could you ever forgive me?”

“I’m not angry. I mean, I am. Angry. Just not at any of you. I know you had a family to look after, and that you just did what you thought was best for them, I can’t blame anybody for that. What’s done is done.”

     Frieda had never expected to see him again. And even if she did, she was certain he would hate her with every fibre of his being. “You’re too good,” she said, weakly. “Karla’s always said it.” Harry tensed up at the mention of her name, and Frieda answered his silent question. “She’s fine,” she smiled. “Nothing would make her happier than seeing her boy again.”

“Could… Could I see her?”

“ _Aber Natürlich,_ sweetheart. Of course. We’re not holding you back. You’re welcome here, _jederzeit,_ whenever you want.” She moved her chair to leave some room for Lotte to leave. “Lotte,  _schatzi,_ go with him. You know where she lives.”

     Harry picked up his suitcase and stood up; his legs were heavier, and his knees felt weak. He just gave Louis’ shoulder a light squeeze and a softly whispered, “I’ll see you soon.” _Love you_ , is what he would’ve added, had they been alone in the room.

     Luzi and Matilda threw a cheerful “ _Tschüss, Harry_!” in a single voice, as he and Lotte left through the door.

     As they stepped outside, eyes fixated on the ground so as to avoid tripping over broken shards of glass and debris scattered all around, Lotte laced their fingers together.  “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “Mutti hardly ever lets me out of the house.”

“Why not?” 

     Lotte nodded at a soldier standing at the end of the street, with a rifle in his hand and a toothpick poking out of his mouth. He had a thick beard and a nasty look about him. “The Soviets. If they see German girls and women alone, they… They take them and they…”

“Right. Stay close to me, then.”

     It was a long walk to the other side of the neighbourhood. They turned dozens of corners, walked around mountains of bricks and concrete, and avoided heavy military tanks. They turned one last street, and Lotte let go of Harry’s hand. She hung back, and when Harry didn’t understand, she just smiled. He looked around.

     It only took him a moment to recognize the woman who was pushing a rusty wheelbarrow filled with heavy bags of concrete mix. Her blond curls were damp and some of the ringlets stuck to her forehead. As she looked up and met his eyes, she dropped the handles of the wheelbarrow in shock.

     She didn’t take the first step; Harry did. He rushed into her arms as a strong, feeling of pure bliss spread inside his chest. He felt her crying – with joy, he hoped. She couldn’t utter a word for a very long time, and she held onto him so very tightly, he felt her love seeping into his own heart with every passing second. The only words she managed to articulate through her sobs were how much he’d grown up. When she’d met him for the first time at orphanage, he barely reached her hip. And now, he was even taller than her. He tried to laugh, but the tears got the best of him.

     Choosing to stay and choosing to come back; those had been the best decisions he’d ever made.

     Right this moment, he told himself that he’d never been so happy. And as far as his happiness was concerned, Louis had always played a significant role.

 

***

     Sankt Gallen’s sweeping pastures were the stuff of fairytale books. They were covered in thick, lush grasses, which waved in the breezes and the balmy wafts of wind, in the summer of 1947. The landscape was a mixture of wooded uplands, rocky outcrops, and long, low meadows that swept down to the Bodensee. The sun was trying to break free from the clouds. The rest of the city seemed to have come straight out of a dream. It spread itself over the foot of the mountains. Little quaint houses with warm brown roofs lined the paved roads, and the mist hid the summits of the highest hills. It was a foggy day. The sort of landscape that is usually only seen on postcards.

     Harry hadn’t much to compare it with, but he still thought that Switzerland was one of the most beautiful countries. He and Louis had been saving up for their trip around the world and Sankt Gallen seemed like a good place to start.

     He approached the Hannover, which was nearly twice his size. He risked brushing his fingers against the frontal propeller, and immediately withdrew his hand for fear of damaging it. It was hard to believe that he was finally standing there, right before his childhood fantasy, a real-size version of the infamous little airplane stuck in a tree in the middle of the Tiergarten park. He’d always preferred airplanes that had a personality. This one had _character_ ; and it was rather intimidating.

     A strong gust of wind blew through his hair. He’d let it grow for the past two years, and it had become too long for many people’s liking. He loved it that way, though. He had gorgeous, shiny curls that framed his face beautifully. It made him look younger.

     He ran his fingers through the long locks and swept them aside and off of his face. He glanced at the two men who were having a chat a little further down, on a path of white crushed shells. With his hands buried in his pockets, Louis was casually talking with Herr Maisel who was unknowingly feeding his fear and apprehension by telling him all about the mechanism and the intricacies of aerodynamics. Louis would nod every once in a while, he’d fake a smile and he’d lie and say that he was positively thrilled to try out the Hannover. In reality, his heart was pounding in his chest and his mouth was completely dry. He hadn’t even eaten anything that morning, after he and Harry had left the tiny room they shared at the local inn.

     Though, Louis was the main reason why the both of them were there. He’d found Ezra Maisel’s address in Switzerland earlier that year, and he’d written to him. _Harry wants to fly, so let’s give him that_.

     This little trip to Switzerland had been a good excuse to get away from the mess that Berlin had become after falling into the hands of the Soviets. Sankt Gallen was like heaven on earth, they’d both felt it as soon as they stepped out of the train and onto the platform. They were welcomed by Herr Maisel and his niece, Eden, who’d grown up quite a bit. She was engaged, now, and she greeted Harry warmly, like an old friend.

     Very few people knew the truth about them. Lotte knew, and she’d promised to keep it a secret. The street sweeper in front of their little flat in the suburbs knew too. The place was tiny and crowded, the walls were lined with photographs and the table was always loaded with empty cups of coffee and books and odd little trinkets. Their mothers knew, too. It must be said that their life didn’t exactly line up with what Frieda and Karla had imagined. They looked very happy together, though, and there was no wife or marriage or children in sight. Louis had taken it upon himself to clearly come to terms about it with his mother. One day, as she was visiting their new place, he’d told her everything. He was visibly restless and fidgety, nervously gesturing to assert his words. Frieda would solemnly nod once in a while. _I knew,_ is all she’d said. _And I understand_. Meanwhile, Harry had put it very simply. He’d told Karla, clear and concise, “I love Louis. I always did.” She’d smiled and she’d said, “It’s your life, darling. _It’s your life.”_

     And it was true. He’d never felt so powerful. It was his life. And it was Louis’ life, too. Their life together was uncommon, badly perceived and punctuated by various strategies to stay hidden. All means were good to find a way around old women who wanted to set them up with their daughters. Everyone on their street knew them as two roommate brothers who worked odd jobs to get by. They also knew Louis as a poor widower who’d lost his wife during the war. One day, he’d even managed to shed a very convincing tear while speaking of his beloved _Hazel_ , whom he missed and loved so very dearly. Louis and Harry were still young, and very handsome, too. They would have to keep up the act for quite a long time before they would be allowed to live a quiet life.

     The little amount of freedom that the world gave them was at home.

     And in Sankt Gallen. They’d spent the first evening on top of the highest hill, where the wind could’ve just blown them away if they weren’t careful enough. Harry had sat on the edge, where the view was breathtaking. It seemed as though he was sitting right on top of the world. And when he’d sensed Louis settling down next to him and resting his head on his shoulder, he felt at peace, and he understood the true meaning of the word _Freiheit_ ; freedom.

“Put this on for me, love?” Louis said after he’d joined Harry next to the Hannover. “I need a photo of you with that thing on your head.”

     Louis was standing before him, with a soft smile on his lips and his hands almost completely covered by the long sleeves of his shirt. He handed him a leather aviator helmet, paired with massive goggles. Harry reluctantly complied and put it on, adjusting the goggles with a ridiculous smile.

“I look stupid.” 

“You look _adorable_.”

     Wild and unruly curls found their way out of the helmet, and his dimple appeared on his left cheek. Louis furiously pressed the button of his camera and immortalized the moment. Louis glanced at the Hannover in which Herr Maisel had just climbed and he let the camera hang around his neck. He made sure the man wasn’t looking, and he stepped forward, cupped his face with his hands and went for a quick kiss. The bridge of his nose knocked over the goggles’ frame and it made them laugh out loud. “Didn’t see that one coming,” Louis giggled softly. 

“I’ll give you a proper kiss when we’re back in our room.” 

“If we survive, you mean,” Louis whispered, nodding at the airplane.

     Harry just shrugged, and then he walked away to join Herr Maisel, every step of his was filled with all the determination in the world. And it was funny, Louis thought. It was funny, because for a little more than a decade, Harry had always needed a leader, someone who pushes him forward, someone who lifts him up and fills his heart with pride. Now, he was his own leader, tall, and alive with the wind. And Louis just trailed behind, pale and nauseous at the thought of getting on board. But then again, it was a small price to pay for the feeling of being free, as short and fleeting as it would be.

     The runway stretched far ahead of them, all smooth and framed by the tall grass, summery scents wafting through the air. They’d gotten permission to take off, earlier that morning. Once Louis settled inside the cockpit, alone behind Harry and Herr Maisel, he knew there was no backing out of this. He sunk on his seat.

“ _Alles gut_?” Harry spun around, frowning with concern. “You’re pale.”

“I’m fine,” he lied. “You know what, no. I’m not fine. I’m shitting myself.”

“You’ve nothing to be afraid of,” Herr Maisel promised with a reassuring smile. “Been doing this for decades. You’re safe.”

“Right,” Louis squirmed on his seat. “But... What if it starts to rain?”

“Let it rain, then,” Harry and the pilot said, in the exact same voice. Harry gently put his hand on Louis’ knee. “You’ll love it, Lou. I promise.”

     The engine started, the propeller began spinning and the wind rose again. Louis leaned in to whisper in Harry’s ear, “If we crash… listen, if we crash, just know that I love you more than anything in the world. I love you so much it makes me want to cry, sometimes. Also, I’m the one who broke the teapot in the living room, it wasn’t Lotte. But I didn’t do it on purpose, I know you loved it.” 

“Well,” Harry whispered back, “I love you too, and you’re the love of my life, but we’re not going to crash.”

“We’ll see about that.”

     He straightened up on his seat and pulled the seatbelt tightly over his chest. He watched in horror as Herr Maisel fiddled with just about a thousand little buttons and luminous signs on the dashboard. The Hannover was roaring to life and moving on the tracks, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Harry was over the moon and Louis shut his eyes tightly, on the verge of fainting.

“We're going to die, mark my words!” he cried when the wind and the sound of the propellers became too loud. He felt his heart sinking in his chest and he figured they must’ve taken off. When he opened his eyes again, it took everything in him to avoid being sick. It lasted a few seconds, and then a lively curiosity took over his fear. He looked all around, eyes sweeping over the landscape. The runway was far behind them, and they were high enough to get a heart-stopping view of the little town. Sankt Gallen was a mass of little white and brown houses scattered all around, divided by narrow, winding paths, and surrounded by hues of dark green. The mountains, with their year-round snow-capped peaks, watched over the town in the distance. He’d never seen anything so dazzling and soothing at the same time. 

     He understood that one of the many ways to see that the world was still beautiful was to just take a step back and _look_. What could be better than flying to get that sort of view?

     When the sun pierced through the veil of clouds, they had to squint. Its rays were happily soaking some distant part of the town. That was when Louis remembered to look at Harry. He’d never seen him so serene, and he was staring right back at him, with his full lips curled up in a tiny smile and his face gleaming in the sun. There were small tears pearling in the corners of his eyes, and Louis felt like he’d just fallen in love all over again.

“We’re flying, Lou!”


End file.
